CHAPTER I.

THE

BREAKING OF THE STORM.

BY

FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN.

Translated from the German

BY

S. E. A. H. STEPHENSON.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. III.

LONDON:

RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON.

1877.

(_All Rights Reserved_.)

THE BREAKING OF THE STORM.

BOOK V.--_Continued_.

CHAPTER II.

Frau Feldner, Valerie's old lady's-maid, told Elsa that her lady was in

a sound sleep, as was always the case with her after a violent attack

of headache, and out of which she would hardly awake before evening.

Elsa, who had herself suffered from the extraordinary sultriness of the

day, and from the uncomfortable conversation at dinner, and was also

put out and agitated by the scene with the Count, intended to employ

the time in taking a walk; and thinking that Carla and the Count were

already gone, was going, out of courtesy, to invite Frau von Wallbach

to accompany her. Hat and shawl in hand, she was coming out of the

Baroness's rooms, and innocently lifting the portière of the anteroom,

had become a very unwilling spectator of the little scene which took

place between the Count and Carla. In her consternation she had let the

curtain fall again, and without even thinking whether she had been

observed or not, had hastily run downstairs, and now wandered round

the garden trying to persuade herself that what she had seen was a

mistake--her eyes had deceived her. It was not possible that Carla

could have so far forgotten herself, that she could so shamefully

deceive her brother. But the more determinately she tried to drive back

and destroy the hateful picture, the more terribly distinctly it stood

out in her mind.

It must be so! The link that should have united Ottomar and Carla was

torn asunder for ever, even if what she had just seen were only the

sudden delirium of the moment. But how could that be, when she thought

of Carla's intense frivolity, which had often caused her such anxiety;

and of the Count's audacity, from which she had from the first

instinctively shrunk, and of which he had even now given such proof;

when she remembered the confidential whispering, the coquettish

flirting, the many, many things which had taken place between the two

in her very presence, and which had been so displeasing and offensive,

but, above all, so incomprehensible to her, and of which she now found

so terrible an explanation! What would Ottomar say? He must hear of it!

What would he do? Perhaps exult that the chain which fettered him was

broken--in good time! But that would not be like Ottomar. No man would

take it patiently--and he! so sensitive, passionate, and violent, who

had so often risked his life in a duel on the slightest provocation--a

disagreeable word, a look--which gave him offence! But, on the other

hand, had he really a right to feel himself offended? Had he really

tried to retain Carla's love, or even first to win it, as it was his

duty to do, after he became engaged to her? Had he not neglected her in

the eyes of the world? left her, unguarded and unsheltered, to throw

herself into that roaring whirlpool of social life in which she had

formerly moved with such fatal enjoyment, and in which she had gained

such brilliant triumphs? If so, he would have no betrayed love, only

wounded vanity to avenge--to risk his life for a thing in which he did

not himself believe, only because in the eyes of society this sad

comedy of errors needed a sanguinary end. Oh! this miserable slavery,

in which she had once fancied herself happy and free, only because she

had not learnt how a free heart beats, and for what a soul longs which

that heart has set free, and which now spreads out its wings to soar

away from all these wretched barriers of prejudice and illusion into

the clear atmosphere of a noble and unselfish love! She could no longer

bear to remain between the high, straight hedges and the interwoven

branches of the beech-walk, in which here and there appeared stone gods

and goddesses in odd and exaggerated attitudes, as if startled at the

sight of one who could think and feel so differently to those who had

their pride and joy in these quaint, old-fashioned splendours.

Away! away! to him she loved, if it might be, to seek shelter in his

strong arms from this hollow, unreal world, to weep out upon his

faithful breast her grief and indignation, to feel free in his presence

from all this self-made sorrow, this foolish misery, and never, never

again to leave him. And if this highest happiness were denied her, if

she must return to the slavery of these intolerable circumstances--out

into the open then, over the brown meadows, through the dark fields, to

the white dunes which peeped out in the distance, to have one look at

the sea--his beloved sea! Might it but bring her a greeting from her

beloved, a waft of his breath to cool her hot brow, to refresh her

burning eyes, were it only by a tear of unsatisfied longing!

Over the brown meadows and through the dark fields Elsa hurried, in the

direction of a farm which lay before her at some distance, and which

she must pass if she followed any further the sandy path, which looked

as if it would take her quickest to her goal. The path led her ever

nearer to the farm, and at last directly into it. Elsa did not like it;

she would rather have met no one, since she dared not hope to meet him

for whom she longed; but an attempt to get round the outside of the

barn was frustrated by wet ground here and a hedge there. She must turn

back or pass through the farm--a little, melancholy, quiet farm, a few

tumble-down out-buildings, from which the dwelling-house was only to be

distinguished by the windows--which looked dilapidated enough too--and

by the two lime-trees, which in summer made a pleasant shade before the

door, but whose bare, leafless branches now projected in a ghostly

manner over the decayed thatched roof against the grey sky.

A tall, broad-shouldered man came out from a barn-door, followed by a

little dog, who flew at the stranger, barking loudly. The man called

the animal back. At the first sound of his voice, Elsa, to whom the

whole scene had appeared wonderfully familiar, as if she must have seen

it before, recognised the honest farmer who had so kindly sheltered her

last autumn.

"Herr Pölitz!" she said, holding out her hand. "You have forgotten me."

A look of joy came over the sunburnt face. "Come, this is good of you

to pay us a visit!"

"You knew, then, that I was in Warnow?"

The farmer smiled in his melancholy way.

"How should the like of us not know such a thing? But that you should

have remembered us! My wife will be so pleased."

He went towards the house. Elsa was very sorry to spoil the pleasure of

these worthy people, but she could not permit herself even so trifling

an untruth. The farmer's face clouded, as she explained, with some

embarrassment, that during the week she had been at Warnow she had

never been beyond the garden, and had not now intended any visit; in

fact, that she had not known that these buildings, which she had often

enough seen from her window across the fields, were Herr Pölitz's farm.

"But," she added, "I should have come had I known, or as soon as I

discovered it. For that I give you my word."

"We could not have expected it," answered the farmer; "but since you

say so, I believe you. But will you not come in!" he added

hesitatingly.

"Yes, for a minute, to speak to your wife and to see the children."

"The children!"

As they now stood before the door, the farmer laid his brown hand on

her arm, and said in a low voice:

"Don't ask after little Carl. Since Christmas he has slept over there

in the churchyard. It was a sorrowful Christmas. But in a few days, if

God will, we shall again have two."

He left Elsa no time to answer, but opened the low house-door--how well

Elsa remembered the rattling bell!--called out to his wife, and showed

his guest into the parlour on the left. As she went in, the figure of a

woman rose up from a stool near the stove, whom Elsa in the dusk, which

already prevailed in the room, with its small, dull windows, took for

Frau Pölitz, but on coming nearer, saw that it was a young and pretty,

but pale and sickly-looking girl. She greeted her in a shy and

embarrassed manner, and went away without speaking a word.

"A sister of mine," said the farmer, answering Elsa's look, in a low

voice and turning away his head. "Will you not sit down? If you will

allow me, I will go myself and look for my wife."

He went out. Elsa would have preferred to follow him. The close

atmosphere in the little, over-heated room nearly took away her breath;

and worse than the atmosphere was the sense of misery which was so

palpable here, and spoke so distinctly in the farmer's melancholy

face, in the girl's white cheeks, in everything on which her glance

fell--even in the gloomy silence of the wretched farmyard and in the

dilapidated house. Had she fled from the splendid misery of the castle

only to find the same helpless sorrow in the little farmhouse! But at

least it was not self-made suffering, so that it must awaken

compassion, though it could not revolt the soul like what she had just

experienced. How could she refuse these poor people the only thing they

had asked of her--a tender word of compassion?

The farmer came in with his wife. He had already told her all--that the

young lady could only say a word in passing to-day, but that in a few

days she would come and spend a longer time with them. "Hardly in a few

days," said the farmer; "we are going to have bad weather. I must even

urge the young lady not to remain too long; it may break up this

evening."

He had been standing at the window, and now left the room, murmuring a

few words of apology, of which Elsa only understood "roof" and "cover."

"It is the roof of the barn," explained his wife; "it is so rotten he

has had to take down one corner, and must now cover it over as well as

he can, that the storm may not carry away the rest. To be sure it may

be all one to him. We must leave at Easter anyhow."

"How is that?" asked Elsa.

"Our lease is not renewed," answered the woman; "and no new farmer is

coming either. Everything here is to be pulled down and a big hotel

built, so they say. God knows what will become of us!"

The poor woman, who looked even paler and more worn in her present

condition than in the autumn, sighed deeply. Elsa tried to comfort her

with words of sympathy. "It would be easy for a man like Herr Pölitz to

find something else, and if capital was wanting to rent a new, and

perhaps larger and better farm, some means would be devised for that

also. The great thing was, not to lose courage herself. She must think

only of her husband, who took life hardly enough as it was, and whose

strength would be paralysed if she lost heart. She must think of the

child that remained to her, and of the other that was coming, and

everything would come right."

The woman smiled through her tears.

"Ah!" she said, "what a comfort it is to hear such words from kind

people! It does not last long, but for the moment one feels lighter;

and that is a great deal when one's heart is so heavy. That is what I

always say to the Captain. He is just like you."

A thrill of joy passed through Elsa. Reinhold had been here! He had

also sought the place to which her thoughts had so often returned.

"He has often been here already," said Frau Pölitz; "only the day

before yesterday he came on foot; but generally he goes in his boat to

Ahlbeck."

"How far is it to Wissow?" asked Elsa.

"About four or five miles if you go right over Wissow Head; three miles

to the Head, and half as much down to Wissow. You can see it there from

the top. It is very fine up there on a summer's day. We used to go

there very often formerly, but we never go now."

The pale girl here came in, took a key from a shelf near the door, and

went out again immediately.

"Your sister-in-law is here to nurse you?" said Elsa. "The poor girl

seems rather to need nursing herself."

"Yes, God knows?" said Frau Pölitz. She pulled at her apron with an

embarrassed look and drew nearer to Elsa on the little sofa, and went

on in a low voice, "I ought not to talk about it, but you are so kind

and good, and it lies so terribly heavy on my mind. If you would----"

"If your husband has forbidden you to speak, you had better not tell

me."

The woman shook her head.

"No, no, not that; he does not know--at least I hope not, although

since yesterday--perhaps it is as well----"

"Tell me then, it may calm you," said Elsa, who was frightened at the

woman's evident excitement.

"Yes, yes; true," said Frau Pölitz; "and you might also advise me as to

what I shall do. Marie is--she has--if you look at me like that I

cannot tell you--she has always been in all other respects a good,

industrious, clever girl, only sometimes a little high-flown, poor

thing. She was housekeeper over at Golm to the Count, for two years,

although my husband never approved of it, as in a large house like

that--you know well how it is--there are so many people, and in a

bachelor's establishment it is difficult to keep order and discipline.

But she had good wages, and all went on well till last Michaelmas, when

she suddenly gave warning, without saying a word to us, and went to

Sundin, also as housekeeper, to the President's. But that did not last

long, and the President's lady, who is a very good lady--may God reward

her!--looked after her; and we knew nothing about it all until the poor

infant died, in November. My husband was quite frantic, as he lays

great store by his family, which has seen better days, and especially

this sister, who had always been his pet. But what was to be done? What

is done is done, and when at Christmas our little Carl died, and I

could not well manage the household work, I wrote to the President's

lady and she sent her here to us, and wrote at the same time such a

kind letter. I will show it to you next time you come. Marie has been a

real help to me, and has cost us nothing. She has saved something, and

the President's lady also helped, and she has often offered me her

little store. Of course I have never taken it, although I am convinced

that it is honestly earned, and that he--the father--has never troubled

himself about the poor thing. She told me that herself, but always

added, 'He knew nothing of it--nothing at all.' But that is impossible

to believe, even if we, my husband and I, had no suspicion as to who

could be the father. The name should never pass her lips, the poor girl

said. And even yesterday it never did so." The woman paused for a few

moments, as if to gather strength for what she still had to relate.

Elsa's heart beat with sympathy, and with a dull fear, which increased

every moment, for which, however, she could not account. What possible

reference could the poor girl's story have to her! The woman had come

quite close to her, and went on in a still lower voice: "Yesterday

afternoon, just at this time, my husband was behind there at the barn,

Marie was ironing, with the child in the room next the kitchen, where,

if you remember, the window looks on to the garden, and I was here

washing, when some riders came up to the farm----" Elsa's heart gave a

leap, and she involuntarily turned away from the woman. "Good heavens!"

exclaimed the latter; "I trusted the Captain. He told me the day before

yesterday that there was not a word of truth in the report about here

that you were going to marry the Count. If it is true, I dare not say

another word!"

"Thank God it is not the case," said Elsa, by a strong effort

overcoming her emotion. "The Count is then the man!"

Frau Pölitz nodded. "She cannot any longer deny it, and indeed she

confessed as much to me, when I brought her to herself. They had

dismounted and come into the house; the Count said that the young lady

was unwell, and begged for a cup of coffee. May God forgive him, but it

was certainly untrue, as the young lady was not the least unwell; on

the contrary, did nothing but laugh, and they went through the house

straight into the garden. A few old trees stand in it, and the hedges

are also rather overgrown, so that it is quite sheltered; but Marie

must have seen more than the poor girl could bear; and as I stood there

by the stove she suddenly shrieked out, so that I thought she had let

the heater of the iron fall on her foot, or that the child had hurt

itself, and rushed in. There she lay on her back on the floor, and I

thought she was dead, as she neither moved nor stirred, and was cold as

ice and white as a sheet. You may easily imagine how frightened I was,

and I may thank God that it was no worse. I called out, and Rike, our

maidservant, came, and I sent her for my husband; and it was well I did

so, for Marie came to herself, looked all round her with a bewildered,

glassy stare, and then to the window, and asked timidly, 'Is he still

there?' I knew then for certain, and begged her, for God's sake, to

keep silence before Carl, my husband. But since then he has been so

odd; I am afraid he must have remarked something when he went into the

garden to tell the Count that they must wait a little for the coffee

and so forth. The Count would not hear anything more about the coffee,

and the young lady told me how sorry she was. She had had no idea that

we had an invalid in the house. Upon which my husband said, 'Excuse me,

ma'am, my sister is not an invalid, she has only just been taken ill;'

and he said it so strangely, with his eyes fixed as if some other

thought were in his mind. What shall I do? Shall I tell him? What do

you think?"

Frau Pölitz held both Elsa's hands clasped in hers and looked anxiously

into her eyes.

"I think--yes," said Elsa. "You cannot keep it from him in the end, and

a wife should have no secrets from her husband. It seems to me that all

the evil in the world comes from our keeping and concealing from one

another our most sacred feelings, as if we had reason to be ashamed of

them; as if we did not live in them--only in them!"

She stood up and seized her hat and shawl from the round table.

"You are going already?" said Frau Pölitz sorrowfully; "but indeed it

is a long way to Warnow."

"I have much farther to go," said Elsa, putting on her hat. "Three

miles, did you say?"

"Where to?"

"To Wissow Head." Frau Pölitz stared at Elsa, as if she were talking

nonsense. "Yes," said Elsa, "to the Head. I cannot miss the way?"

"A road goes from here straight through the marshes, but makes a great

bend at Ahlbeck on account of the brook. But, my dear young lady, for

heaven's sake what do you want to go there for?"

Elsa had put on her shawl, and now grasped Frau Pölitz by both hands.

"I will tell you. To have one look--one look only--at the place where

the man I love lives. You need not look at me so anxiously, dear Frau

Pölitz, He really lives at Wissow."

"The Superintendent of Pilots?" exclaimed Frau Pölitz.

She sat down and burst into tears of joy.

"You also love him," said Elsa with a proud smile.

"Oh! indeed I do," cried Frau Pölitz, sobbing; "and oh! how happy my

husband will be! May I tell him----"

"You may tell whom you will."

"Oh! how pleased I am! You could not have given me greater pleasure

than to tell me this. It makes me feel quite young again. Such a

charming gentleman as he is, and such a dear, dear young lady! I feel

sure that everything must go right now."

She kissed Elsa's hand again and again, with hot tears. Elsa gently

disengaged herself. "I will tell you everything next time. Now I must

go."

"No," said Frau Pölitz, standing up, "you must not walk such a long

way; my husband shall drive you."

"I am determined to walk," said Elsa.

"You cannot be back before dark. It is already beginning to get dark,

and we are certainly going to have bad weather."

Elsa would allow no objection to weigh with her. She was a good walker

and had eyes like a hawk. She feared neither the distance nor the

darkness.

With that she once more shook Frau Pölitz's hand, and the next minute

had left room, and house, and farm, and was walking quickly through the

fields along the road, of which the farmer's wife had spoken, towards

the headland, whose broad mass stood out from the wide plain.

CHAPTER III.

It was three miles, Frau Pölitz had to Wissow Head, but it seemed to

Elsa as if the long, winding road would never come to an end. And yet

she walked so quickly, that the little empty waggon which at first was

far ahead of her, was now as far behind. That wretched vehicle was the

only sign of human life. Besides that, only the brown plain, like a

desert waste, as far as her eye could reach. No large trees, only here

and there a few stunted willows, and some wretched shrubs by the

ditches which intersected each other here and there, and by the broad

sluggish stream which she now crossed by means of a rickety and

unprotected wooden bridge. The stream evidently flowed from the chain

of hills on her right hand, at the foot of which Elsa could see far

apart the buildings of Gristow and of Damerow, the two other properties

belonging to Warnow.

Taking a long circuit, she gradually ascended to Wissow Head, which lay

straight before her, whilst the plain to the left stretched without the

smallest undulation to the low-lying dunes, which only showed white

here and there over the edge of the moor. Only once, for a few minutes,

a leaden-grey streak showed through a gap by which the brook made its

way, which Elsa knew must be the sea, although she could scarcely

distinguish it from the sky, for the sky above her was the same leaden

colour too, only that towards the east, over the sea, it seemed

somewhat darker than over the hills to the west, and in the leaden

firmament hung here and there a solitary whitish speck like the smoke

of gunpowder, which in the motionless air remained always in the same

spot. Not the slightest breath was stirring, but from time to time a

strange murmur passed across the waste, as if the brown moor was trying

to rouse itself from its long slumber; and through the heavy, gloomy

atmosphere there came a sound as of a soft, long-drawn-out, plaintive

wail, and then again a death-like stillness, in which Elsa seemed to

hear the beating of her heart.

But more fearful almost than the stillness of this desert spot was the

shrieking of a great flock of sea-gulls, which she had startled from

one of the many hollows on the moors, and which now hovered hither and

thither in the grey atmosphere, their pointed bills turned downwards,

and followed her for a long time, as if in furious anger at this

intruder upon their domain.

Nevertheless she walked on and on, quicker and quicker, following an

impulse which she would allow no considerations of prudence to check,

which was stronger even than the dread which earth and sky whispered to

her with ghost-like breath, threatening and warning her with

supernatural voices. And then came another more terrible fear. Far

away in the distance, at the foot of the headland, which ever stood out

more majestically before her, she had fancied she saw dark moving

objects, and now that she approached nearer, she was convinced of it.

Labourers--many hundred--who were working at an apparently endless

embankment, which had already reached a considerable height.

She could not avoid crossing the embankment, even if she made a great

circuit; she must pass through the long line of workmen. She did so

with a courteous greeting to those who stood nearest to her. The men,

who were already working lazily enough, let their barrows stand, and

stared at her without returning her greeting. As she passed on, loud

shouts and coarse laughter sounded behind her. Turning involuntarily,

she saw that two of the number had followed her, and only stopped as

she turned, perhaps also checked by the noise made by the others.

She continued on her way, almost running. There was now only a narrow

path over the short withered grass and across the sandy tracts which

alternated on the slope of the hill. Elsa said to herself that she

should remain within sight of the men till she reached the top, and

might at any time be followed by them. But if she turned back in the

deepening twilight the men would perhaps have left off work; no

overseer would be there to keep their rudeness in check, and there

would be the whole endless plain as far as Warnow in which these rough

men might bewilder, terrify, and insult her. Should she turn back at

once, while it was yet time? beg for the escort of one of the

overseers? or take refuge in the waggon which she had before overtaken,

and which was now close to the workmen, or in another vehicle, which

from the height on which she stood she could now see in the distance,

and which must also have followed her, as there was no other road over

the plain.

Whilst Elsa was thus deliberating with herself, she hastened, as if

under a spell, with beating heart, up the incline, whose top stood out

sharply in a straight line against the grey sky between her and the

sea.

With every step the sea and the line of dunes stretched broader and

farther to the left, and her gaze wandered out to where the vapour of

the sea and sky mingled together, and over the beautifully curved line

of the coast to the wooded heights of Golmberg, whose purple masses

hung threateningly over.

Above the confused mass of crowded treetops rose the tower of the

castle. Between Golmberg yonder and the height on which she stood was

the brown plain over which she had passed--inhospitable as the sea

itself, from which it was only divided by the yellow outline of the

dunes. The only abode of mankind was the fishing hamlet of Ahlbeck,

which, close to the foot of the promontory, now lay almost directly at

her feet. There also, between the houses and the sea, on the broad

strand, were long moving lines of workmen as far as the two piers,

which, curving towards each other, ran out into the sea. At the piers

were two or three large vessels, which seemed to be unloading, whilst a

fleet of fishing-boats, all on the same course, were making for the

shore. Though all the sails were set, yet the boats were really only

moved by the oars. The uniform position of the brown sails and the

monotonous movements of the oars, formed a curious contrast to the

confused whirring of the white gulls, who, as before, circled

incessantly above her head, between her and the shore.

She saw it all with her clear-sighted eyes, as a traveller on the

railway mechanically observes the details of the landscape which the

train rushes through, while his thoughts are at home, tasting the

rapture which he will feel after his long separation from those he

loves. And she, alas! dared not hope to look into the dear eyes, to

hold the loved hands in hers, to hear the sound of that strong, yet

gentle and kind voice. She only wanted to see the place where he lived.

And it seemed as if even that small consolation was to be denied to

her. She had already wandered some way along the path on the top of the

hill, without gaining the slightest glimpse of the other side, where

Wissow must lie, only the sky looked leaden over the edge of the

plateau. Perhaps she might see it if she followed the broader road that

she had now reached, and that, coming from her right, led upwards along

the side of the hill to a heap of immense logs, above which rose a huge

signal-post, which must be erected on the topmost height of the

headland, and probably also on its extreme edge.

And in fact, as she now climbed higher and higher, a pale streak

appeared to her right--the shore of the mainland--and then again the

leaden surface of the sea, on which here and there a sail was seen, and

at last, immediately beneath her on this side, a white point of dune,

which spread gradually like a wedge towards the headland, until it

formed a little peninsula, in the centre of which lay a dozen or so of

houses of various sizes between the white sands and the brown moor.

That was Wissow! That must be Wissow!

And now, as she stood on the point which she had reached by the

exertion of all her physical and moral powers, and however lovingly she

stretched out her arms, felt that the object of her desires still lay

so far off, so utterly beyond her reach--now for the first time she

believed that she understood the dumb, terrifying voices of the

solitude and loneliness around her, the whispering and rustling of the

moor, the wailing spirit-voices in the air. Alone! alone!

Infinite sorrow welled up in her heart, her knees gave way, she sank

down upon a stone near the logs, buried her face in her hands, and

burst into tears like a helpless, lost child. She did not see that a

man, who was leaning against the signal-post behind the logs, watching

the sea, startled by the strange sound near him, stepped forward. She

did not hear his steps as he hastened towards her over the short turf.

"Elsa!"

She sprang up with a half-stifled cry.

"Elsa!"

And again she cried out--a wild cry of joy, which rang strangely

through the stillness, and she lay on his breast, clinging to him like

a drowning woman.

"Reinhold! My Reinhold!"

She wept, she laughed, she cried again and again: "Reinhold, my

Reinhold!"

Speechless with happiness and astonishment at the sweet surprise, he

drew her down to him on the stone on which she had been sitting.

She leaned her head on his breast. "I have so longed for you."

"Elsa, my darling Elsa!"

"I was forced to come, I could not help it; I was drawn here, as if by

invisible hands. And now I have you! Oh! do not leave me again. Take me

with you yonder to your home. My home is there with you. With you! Do

not drive me out again into the desolate, false and loveless world

which lies behind me. With you only is happiness, peace, joy, truth,

fidelity! Oh! how your true loving heart beats, I feel it. It loves me

as I love you. It has longed for me, as my poor, distracted heart has

longed for you."

"Yes, my Elsa, it has longed for you intensely, unspeakably. I came up

here because it gave me no peace. I wanted to have one look only to

where you were--one last look, before----"

"Before what--for heaven's sake!"

He had led her the few steps to the logs, and now stood, with his arm

round her, close to the edge of the hill, which sloped so precipitously

down from its frowning brow, that they seemed to be hanging immediately

over the grey sea in the grey sky.

"Look, Elsa! There comes the storm. I hear it, I see it, as if it were

already let loose. It may be hours first, but it will come, it must

come with terrible fury. Everything shows signs of it. That leaden sea

below us will be tossed in wild waves, whose spray will be thrown up

even to this height. Woe to the ships that are not already safe in

harbour, and perhaps even there they are not secure from its wild fury.

Woe to the low-lying lands beneath us. I meant to have written to you

this morning, because I saw it coming even yesterday, and to tell you

that you would do better to leave Warnow, but you would not have gone."

"Never! I am so proud that you trust me, that you have told me this.

And if the storm breaks, and I know that your dear life is in danger, I

will be firm; or if I tremble I will not fear, only to myself I will

say, 'He could not do his duty, he could not be the brave true man whom

I love, if he knew that I were weeping and wringing my hands, whilst he

must guide and command as on that evening;' do you remember? Do you

know, my darling, that I loved you then! and do you remember you told

me that I had the eyes of a sailor? Oh! how I remember every word,

every look, and how pleased I was that I was not obliged to give you

back the compass directly! I did not mean to keep it, I meant you to

have it again."

"You were more honest then than I was, my darling. I was determined not

to give you back your glove. You had taken it off when you were looking

through my telescope; it lay on the deck and I took it up. Since then

it has never left me. See! it has been my talisman. We sailors are

superstitious. I have sworn never to part with it, until instead of the

glove, I hold your dear hand in mine for ever."

He kissed the little grey glove before he returned it to his

breast-pocket. They had again seated themselves on the stone--softly

whispering, caressing, jesting, in loving talk, heart to heart and lip

to lip, forgetting, in the paradise of their young love, the desert

which surrounded them, the darkness which was ever deepening, and the

storm which was brooding in the leaden air, over the leaden sea, like

the angel of destruction over a world which he hoped to annihilate for

ever, and to cast back into primeval chaos. A dull rumbling sound

quivering in the distance attracted their attention; followed

immediately by a sound of rushing through the air, without any motion

that they could feel even at this height, and then again followed the

deathlike stillness.

Reinhold sprang up.

"It comes quicker than I thought. We have not a moment to lose."

"What are you going to do?"

"To take you back."

"You cannot. You must be at your post. You did not come to Warnow this

morning on account of it. How can you now absent yourself so far, when

the danger is much nearer? No, no, my darling, do not look so anxiously

at me. I must learn to live without fear, and I will. I am quite

determined. From this moment there shall be no fear, even before the

world. I cannot live any longer without you, and you cannot live

without me. If I were still in ignorance--but now I know! And, believe

me, my dear father will be the first to understand. He must have known

already when he said to me, what he also wrote to you, 'I leave your

fate in your own hands.' Ottomar and my aunt may share my inheritance;

my proud father would have taken nothing from me, and you--you take me

as I am, and lead me to your home for ever. One more look at my

paradise! One more kiss, and now farewell! farewell!"

She embraced him fervently, and then would have freed herself, but he

held her hand fast.

"It is impossible, Elsa; it is already growing dark up here, and in

half an hour below it will be night. You cannot be certain of keeping

to the road, which can no longer be distinguished from the moor, and

that is full of deep bogs. It is really impossible, Elsa."

"It must be possible. I should despise myself if I kept you back from

your duty; and how could you continue to love me, and not to look upon

your love as a burden, if I did so? How do you know that you may not be

wanted at the shortest notice? At this moment possibly the men may be

standing helpless, and looking out for their leader. Reinhold, by your

love! am I right or not?"

"You are indeed right, but----"

"No 'but,' my darling, we must part." They were as they spoke hastening

hand-in-hand along the path by which Elsa had before reached the top,

and now stood on the cross way which led on one side to the Warnow

moor, and on the other to Wissow.

"Only to the foot. Till I know you are on the right path," said

Reinhold.

"Not a step farther. Hark! What is that?"

He had also noticed it already--a sound as of horses' feet, galloping

on the hard turf behind the slope of the hill which rose before them

and concealed from them any farther view of the other and more

precipitous side. The next moment a rider appeared in sight over the

hill. He had now reached the top, and pulling up his horse, rose in his

saddle and appeared to be looking round him.

"It is the Count," said Elsa.

A deep glow came into her face. "You must accompany me a little way

now," she said, drawing a deep breath. "Come."

She took his arm. At that moment the Count, who had been looking above

them, looked down, and saw the pair. He put spurs to his horse, and

galloping down the slope, was with them in a trice. He had no doubt

recognised Reinhold at once, for when he checked his horse and took off

his hat, his countenance did not show the slightest trace of wonder or

astonishment. He seemed in fact not to see Reinhold, as if he had met

Elsa alone.

"This is good luck indeed. How delighted your aunt will be. She is

waiting there; the carriage could not come any farther."

He pointed with the handle of his whip over the slope of the hill.

"I assure you it is so, though you seem so astonished. Your aunt was

very uneasy at your long absence--inquired in the neighbourhood--learnt

from Pölitz that you had come here--a strange fancy, by Jove!--your

aunt was determined to come herself--I had just returned with Fräulein

von Wallbach, and begged to escort her--was beginning to despair.

Awfully lucky! May I be allowed to accompany you to the carriage? it is

not a hundred yards off."

He had swung himself from his saddle, and held his horse by the bridle.

Reinhold looked straight into Elsa's eyes. She understood and answered

the look.

"We are much obliged to you, Count Golm," he said, "but we will not

trespass on your kindness one instant longer than is necessary. I will

myself conduct my betrothed to the Baroness."

"Ah!" said the Count.

He had pictured to himself beforehand the terrible embarrassment which,

in his opinion, the two culprits would feel on becoming aware of his

presence, and the shock that the Baroness would experience if he could

tell her in what company he had had the happiness of meeting her niece.

He took it for granted that on his arrival the fellow would take

himself off to Wissow, with some embarrassed words of explanation. And

now he could not believe his ears, and he could hardly trust his eyes,

as Elsa and this fellow, turning their backs upon him, walked off

arm-in-arm, as if he had not been there. With one spring he was again

in his stirrups.

"Allow me at least to announce the joyful news to the Baroness!" he

cried, as bowing sarcastically he galloped past and hastened up the

hill, behind which he almost immediately disappeared.

"Wretch!" said Elsa; "thank you, Reinhold, for having understood me,

for having freed me for ever from him and all. You cannot imagine how

thankful I am, nor why I am so thankful. I will not trouble your loving

heart yet with the hateful things I have learned. I will tell you

another time. Happen what will, I am yours, you are mine. That

happiness is so great, everything else is in comparison small and

insignificant."

At a slight distance from them stood the open carriage, and beside it a

horseman. They thought it was the Count, but on coming nearer they saw

that it was a servant. The Count had vanished. As soon as he had

imparted the great discovery, with a sneering laugh to the Baroness,

receiving no other reply than, "I am obliged to you, Count, for your

escort so far"--the two last words being pronounced with peculiar

emphasis--he again took off his hat and rode away over the hill.

The Baroness got out of the carriage and came towards the lovers. Elsa

dropped Reinhold's arm and hastened towards her aunt. Her impetuous

embrace told all that was necessary. As Reinhold stepped forward, the

Baroness held out her hand to him, and said in an agitated voice, "You

bring me my dear child--and yourself. I thank you doubly."

Reinhold kissed the trembling hand. "There is no time to make

speeches," he said, "and your kind heart knows what I feel. God bless

you!"

"And you also, my Reinhold," cried Elsa, throwing her arms round him;

"God bless you! Good luck and joy be with you!"

He had helped the ladies into the carriage, one more pressure of the

loved hand, and the vehicle started off, preceded by the servant. In

spite of the hilly nature of the ground, it was possible to go quickly,

as the soil was firm and the road good, even up here on the top, and

Reinhold had urged the utmost speed. Only a few minutes had passed,

therefore, before the carriage disappeared behind the hill, and half an

hour must elapse before it again came in sight on the plain. He had no

time to wait for that. He dared not lose another moment. The beacons

were already lighted below in Wissow. At that moment a light shone over

the sea, it was the signal for a pilot. It would be instantly obeyed,

he knew; but at any moment some new arrangements might be necessary

which would require his presence. He would take a quarter of an hour to

get there at his quickest pace. He sprang in great bounds down the

hill, when a horseman rose up right before him out of a dip in the

ground which lay in the direction of the hills to the right, and

remained standing on the path. He appeared so suddenly that Reinhold

nearly ran against the horse.

"You are in a great hurry now, it seems," said the Count,

"I am in a great hurry," answered Reinhold, breathless from his quick

run, as he tried to pass the horse. The Count turned it round so that

he now faced Reinhold.

"Make way!" cried Reinhold.

"I am on my own land," answered the Count.

"The road is free!"

"And you are for freedom in all things!"

"Once more! Make way!"

"When it suits me."

Reinhold seized the bridle, and the horse, struck sharply by the spurs

on either side, reared up. Reinhold started back.

The next moment he had drawn a long dirk, which, sailor-like, was

always at his side.

"I should be sorry for the horse," he cried, "but if you will have

it----"

"I only wished to say good-evening to you, Captain; I forgot it before.

Good-evening."

The Count took off his hat with a sneering laugh, turned his horse

round again, and rode off down into the hollow out of which he had

come.

"Such people never learn," murmured Reinhold, as he put up his knife.

It was a speech he had often heard from his uncle Ernst. His uncle

Ernst, who must have felt as he now did, in the terrible moment when

the sword descended upon him. Her father's sword. Good God! is it

really true that the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children?

That this strife will last for ever, from generation to generation?

That we, who are blameless, must take it up against our will and our

convictions?

A clap of thunder, still in the distance, but coming nearer, rolled

through the heavy air, louder and more threatening than the last,

followed again by a tremendous gust of wind, not this time in the upper

strata of clouds, but already descending upon the heights and slopes,

and wailing and groaning as it died away in the hollows. The next gust

might strike the sea, and let loose the storm which would come up with

the tide.

Another struggle was impending before which human malice would seem as

child's play, and human hatred an offence, and only one feeling would

remain victorious--Love!

Reinhold felt this in the lowest depths of his heart, as he now tried

to make up for the moments lost in so painfully trifling a way, and

hastened down in spite of all to risk his life if necessary for the

lives of other men.

CHAPTER IV.

Few words passed between the ladies until they reached home. The aunt

appeared to be suffering from extreme exhaustion that was increased by

the rough drive over the bad road, which, as Reinhold had foretold,

they could hardly distinguish from the heath in the rapidly approaching

darkness; and to all this was added the oppressive sultriness of the

thick damp atmosphere, in which even Elsa herself found breathing

difficult. She also was silent though her heart was full, for she had

thankfully perceived that, come what might, her aunt would be on her

side. Had she not answered the announcement of Elsa's engagement to

Reinhold, startling as it must have been to her, unhesitatingly, with

a warm embrace which was more eloquent than any words? And now she

scarcely once let go her hand or if she did so for a moment it was only

to seize it again immediately as if she wished at least to assure her

of her sympathy and love, though in her weakness she could do no more

for her.

They reached the castle at last. The Baroness sank almost fainting into

her maid's arms, and was immediately conducted by her, with the help of

Elsa, to her own apartments. "Thank you a thousand, thousand times,"

said Elsa, as she wished her aunt good-night.

She was the less inclined to look for Carla in the drawing-room where

she would probably be, as she heard that Frau von Wallbach had already

gone to her room--to read, as she always gave out herself--to sleep, as

Carla maintained. The chattering lady's-maid told Elsa, without waiting

to be asked, that the Count had come there again shortly before their

return, but only for a few minutes, and had brought Fräulein von

Wallbach word that they would soon be back, probably with Captain

Schmidt. The girl smiled as she uttered the last word, not so much but

that she could have denied it if need were, but still just sufficiently

to show the young lady that she knew more, and was quite ready, if

asked, to place at her disposal her good advice and experience. The

Count then had made good use of his time. Let him! for whatever

reasons, whether out of hatred to Reinhold, out of jealousy (the ugly

word was only too good in this case), out of miserable offended vanity,

or only for the malicious satisfaction of himself and Carla, let him

tell all Berlin to-morrow, as he had to-day told the inhabitants of the

castle, what had happened. He would not certainly long have the

pleasure of spreading about so precious a secret under the seal of

mystery. The announcement of the engagement would soon enough break the

seal, and could no longer be delayed. The post from Jasmund to Prora

passed through Warnow at nine o'clock. There was just time. Elsa seated

herself at the little table in the deep bow which was her favourite

seat on account of the view from the window over the plain as far as

the sea and Wissow Head, and wrote with flying pen a few heartfelt

lines to her father. Neither she nor Reinhold had intended, since they

were assured of each other's love, to do otherwise than wait patiently

for brighter and happier days. But after what had happened she must be

careful; there must be no gossip connected with the name of her

father's daughter. No one could know that better, or feel it more

deeply, than the dear kind father in whose righteous hands she now laid

her righteous cause. She gave the letter into the care of an old and

faithful servant, who, during the long absence of the owners, had been

in charge of the castle, and now walked up and down her room in a

strange, half-frightened, half-joyful, but wholly overpowering state of

emotion. "Elsa von Werben--Reinhold Schmidt, Superintendent of Pilots.

Betrothed. Berlin--Wissow." A Superintendent of Pilots! How odd! What

is it exactly?--and Wissow! Does anybody know where Wissow is?--Wissow,

ladies and gentlemen, is a little sandy peninsula, with about twenty

houses, not one of which is a quarter the size of the shooting-box at

Golmberg, or of one of the out-buildings of the ancestral castle of

Golm, whose courtyard gate you pass on the road from Prora to Warnow.

How extraordinary! Really! But she always had extraordinary taste!--and

how wise of the Count to draw back in time from so unseemly a

competition. He is said to be otherwise an agreeable man. That is

always said afterwards. An officer of the reserve too. À la bonne

heure! In that case the General's daughter could really no longer

hesitate. And Elsa laughed and danced as she pictured to herself many

well-known voices in this little concert, to which old Baroness

Kniebreche beat time with her great black fan, but she started back as

she skipped past the window, when a dazzling flash of lightning lit up

the broad plain with a pale light, the Pölitz's farm lying there as

clearly as in broad daylight, and at the same moment a long rolling

peal of thunder made the windows rattle. And then it seemed as if an

earthquake shook the very foundations of the castle. The tiles rattled

from the high roof, shutters clapped to, doors banged, whole windows

must have been blown out, as the wind moaned and whistled and howled

round the walls and gables and through the joints and crevices.

Running, hurrying, and calling resounded through the castle; steps

approached her door. It was her aunt's elderly maid: "Would she come to

her aunt? she was so dreadfully restless and excited, and it was

impossible even for the young lady to think of sleep in such horrible

weather." Elsa was ready at once. She wanted to go to her aunt to thank

her for her kind consideration, and to beg her for her sake on no

account to deprive herself of the rest which, after such a trying day,

was so necessary to her. She said as much to the maid, who only shook

her head and answered nothing, but conducted Elsa in silence to her

lady's door.

Valerie came to meet Elsa at the door. Elsa was startled at the

deadly-white, tear-stained face. She could only imagine that the shock

of the tremendous thunderclap had increased her aunt's malady to this

pitch; she begged her to calm herself; to allow herself to be put to

bed; she would remain with her--the whole night. Her aunt would take

courage when she saw how courageous she herself was, who certainly had

sufficient cause for anxiety.

She led the tottering, trembling woman to the sofa, and would have rung

for her maid, but the other caught her hand convulsively, and pulled

her down by her on the seat. "No, no," she murmured, "not that; it is

you I want; you must stay, but not because I am afraid of the storm--I

fear something much worse than that."

She sprang up and began walking up and down, wringing her hands,

through the large room, which was but dimly lighted by a lamp on the

table.

"I cannot bear it any longer. Now or never is the time. I must speak

out--I must--I must."

She suddenly threw herself at Elsa's feet, as if struck down by the

thunder which just then pealed above them, and clasped her knees.

"It has been my hope and consolation all this time, to confess to you,

so pure, so good! To free myself from the thraldom in which my tyrant

holds me. To make the highest, greatest sacrifice that I can make of

the one bright spot in this dark world--your love!"

"You will not lose my love," said Elsa, "whatever you may confide to

me, that I swear to you!"

"Do not swear it; you cannot. See, I feel even now, how your dear hands

tremble, how your whole body shakes, how you are struggling to keep

calm, and as yet you have heard nothing."

"How can I be calm when you are so terribly excited?" answered Elsa.

"Look, aunt, I have long felt that something lies between you and me,

something more than the unhappy family dissensions, so far as I know

them--a secret which you have not ventured to tell me. I have often and

often longed to beg you to tell me all, but have never had the courage

to do so, though I have reproached myself for not having done it. But

lately it has seemed to me that you have been more reserved towards me

than at first, and that has made me still more anxious. And I also had

a secret on my mind, and did not venture to confess my love to you,

notwithstanding that every hour I spend with you only makes me more

certain that you--you above all others--would be just in the position

to set aside the prejudice with which even my dear father is

surrounded. Shall I confess it to you? Your relations with--with Signor

Giraldi, however much you must have suffered and still must suffer from

them--have seemed to me on this account to be comforting and

encouraging. Whether you approve of my love or not, you will at least

understand it, will be able to sympathise with what you must once have

felt yourself, that one may love a man for himself alone, because one

sees in him the ideal of all that appears to oneself to be worth

loving. And now chance, if it is not wrong to speak of chance here, has

snatched my secret from me. Take courage! Have confidence. Tell me all.

You say it is the right moment, and it certainly is so. It must not be

let slip. And now, dear aunt, rise up, and if I really am, as you said

the first moment we met and now repeat again--your guardian angel, let

me prove it--let me prove that in the midst of the happiness of my love

for the best and noblest of men, I have the strength to free you, to

restore to you the peace and joy for which your soul pines."

With gentle violence Elsa raised up her aunt, whose head had sunk upon

her bosom, dried the tears on the lovely pale face, which seemed

already somewhat calmer and more composed, threw her arms round her and

made her lie down on the sofa, reseating herself on the stool by her

side, after she had put the lamp out of the way on the console.

"I can only confess by the light of your dear eyes," said Valerie.

"From any other my secret would creep back into my heart."

Outside the storm raged and thundered against the old castle, in long,

unequal gusts, and whistled and howled round the walls, between the

gables, as if wild with fury at meeting with resistance, and at this

resistance defying its omnipotence.

"So will he rage," said Valerie, shuddering, "when he comes to-morrow

and demands his victim, and she does not and will not follow him, if he

does his worst, even if he annihilates her.

"Yes, Elsa, he is coming to-morrow; I found the letter when we came in.

The diabolical scheme is ripe, which is to be the destruction of you,

Ottomar--all of you. I myself only partly know this scheme. Hard as his

heart is, he has yet discovered that my heart has gone from him--how

much, how entirely, he does not know, he does not even suspect, or she

whom he once loved as well as he is capable of loving, and who so

passionately loved him, would certainly no longer be alive. Yes, my

dearest Elsa, I must begin with this terrible confession, or you would

not understand the worse things that remain for me to tell. You would

look upon me as the most degraded of our sex; even your loving heart

could not absolve me--if indeed it ever can do so!

"I loved him with an infinite, unholy love, the fiend, who to this day

entraps all who come under his pernicious influence, and whom you must

have known in the beauty and lustre of his youth, to conceive how even

good women found it hard to resist his fascinations.

"I was not absolutely bad, but neither was I good--not in my heart at

least, which longed eagerly for fuller joy; nor was my imagination so

pure as not to be allured and captivated by the world and its glory. I

may have been so unhappily constituted by nature, or the frivolity and

luxury of the court life to which I was so early introduced may have

corrupted my young heart, I do not know, but so it was that my heart

and imagination were alike undisciplined and uncontrolled. How

otherwise could it have been that the bride, whose wedding was to take

place in a few weeks, fell desperately in love in one moment with a man

whom she saw for the first time, and against whom, moreover, even her

dulled conscience warned her, and that, in spite of all and of the

utter hopelessness of this passion which she could not tear from her

heart and--shame and misery!--with this passion for a stranger in her

heart, she stood with her betrothed, in God's sight, before the altar,

to plight him that troth which she had already broken in her heart, and

which, indeed, she had already more than half resolved to break in

reality.

"Do you shudder, my poor darling? I can tell you she had friends who

would not have shuddered had they known! Yes, who knew it, and did not

shudder, who, laughing, pointed to one who had already done so, and

before whom no gentleman took off his hat the less respectfully, before

whom the nobles of the land did not bow less low, and to whom learned

men and artists did not the less render homage.

"Why should we not be allowed what was permitted to her? Were we less

beautiful, less agreeable and clever? She borrowed from us the lustre

which surrounded her. From whom did the fame of the Medician Court

proceed, if not from us and such as we? So might we also allow

ourselves the liberty, which she permitted herself behind the cloak she

borrowed from us.

"And now occurred what I never for one moment believed possible, had

never even thought of. My husband gave up his embassy, quitted the

public service for good, and wished to live here on his property with

me--to live for me. If the latter were not a mere form of words, it did

not mean much at least to my mind. The fact is, he had, in his usual

methodical way, made a regular programme for his whole life, and in it

was laid down, that after he had served the State for a certain number

of years he should marry and retire to his estates. He now intended to

live for me as formerly for the State; fulfilling his duty with anxious

care, without enthusiasm, without pleasure--marriage was to him a task

which must be got over like any other.

"He had concluded and arranged everything before he confided it to me.

I was horrified, rebellious, distracted, furious, and yet--dared not by

look or word betray my feelings. There was only one faint consolation

for me, that the mission on which Giraldi had been employed at our

Court (our duchess was a Roman Catholic, you know) was ended, and he

must at any rate return to Rome. We parted from each other with

promises of eternal love, 'Even if we never see each other again,' I

sobbed. 'We shall meet again,' said Giraldi, with that imperious smile

that you know.

"I did not believe it. I was in despair. And with despair in my heart I

arrived here.

"Was it really despair for the dreamed of happiness? Was it the

soothing influence which the solemn neighbourhood of the sea, the

melancholy solitude of the shore, exercised on my passionate heart? Was

it that my better self was really getting the dominion at last? Little

as I can say for myself, I may at least say this, that I took great

pains to do my duty as the mistress of this house--the wealthy country

lady. I tried even to love my husband, and there were moments when I

thought I did love him. But only moments. I must admit that he was

always and in all things a well-meaning man, who endeavoured to the

utmost to act up to his favourite saying, 'Give every man his due,' so

far as he understood it, and another woman would perhaps have been very

happy with him. I was not, and could not be so. The profound difference

between our characters could not be concealed, but seemed to show

more clearly, the harder I tried to overcome it. He was extremely

well-informed, I might even say learned, but with a want of sensibility

which provoked me, and with a poverty of imagination which drove me to

despair. Nothing was great, nothing was sublime to him. For him there

was nothing heroic, nothing divine. I tried to enter into his prosaic

view of the world, into his narrow-minded judgment of people and

things. I was forced sometimes to admit that he was right, that the

selfish motives which he discovered everywhere had in many cases played

a part, had contributed to bring about this or that result. But what

was there in this melancholy satisfaction of the intellect, in

comparison with all the noble spiritual qualities which were thus left

to lie fallow and perish miserably.

"I felt that I was deteriorating. That whatever blossoms my mind still

bore, were withering as they came under the influence of this dry

atmosphere in which he lived, in which he moved and spoke. I felt that

in the dry sands of this unvarying commonplace life the roots of my

mind were one after another dying down, that I began to hate this life,

which was no life to me, I who had so loved life!--that I began to hate

my husband, who imposed upon me this torturing existence in place of

life.

"It could not last so. I had become a mere shadow of myself. The

doctors shook their heads. Ah! if I had but died then. But I was still

so young, I wanted to live. I swear to you, Elsa, that was all I wished

for. In four such years of suffering one fancies one has learned to

give up even the faintest glimmer and hope of happiness. Strange

delusion! As if one could live without happiness; as if I could have

done so, with the ardent, insatiable heart I had; as if I were not at

that very time giving proof that I could not do it.

"But, truly, it is easy to see this on looking back, but when one looks

forward, one does not see it.

"My husband naturally considered it his duty to follow the doctor's

advice, and to set off on a journey with his young wife. Let me be

silent over the splendid misery of that journey. It brought change,

diversion, but neither peace nor happiness; at the utmost, it deadened

for a moment the wretchedness that reigned uninterruptedly in my

innermost heart, greatly as the young wife in her renovated beauty was

admired in the society of all the Courts which we visited. I may boast

that I victoriously withstood all the temptations with which I was

surrounded; and yet not altogether. For if I did so--if I remained cold

in presence of the passionate feelings which I roused in other

hearts--if I was not touched by the love with which I inspired men

whose worth I well knew, it was not conviction of the sacredness of

marriage that guarded me; it was not pride; it was, although I knew it

not, a deep, bitter grudge against fate which had denied me my

happiness--that happiness of which I had dreamed. It was, in a word,

the recollection of that great passion which filled my soul in my

dreams at night, so that I saw my daily waking life only through its

magic veil--the love which, unknown to myself, still filled my heart,

like the aroma of attar of roses, which long after it is gone scents

the crystal phial which it once filled.

"I discovered this when it was too late--when I had seen him again. It

was not my fault. I had learnt from an apparently unquestionable source

that he had for some years held an important post in South America, and

that he was at that moment in the far West, on the shores of the

Pacific Ocean. A command from the Pope--or, as he said, his star--had

brought him back. You will believe me, Elsa, that I speak the truth,

that the agreement which it is said we made together was an invention;

it is further said that I, whether by agreement or by chance, seized

the cleverly-arranged or unhoped-for happiness with eager hands, and

drank it down greedily.

"And I?

"I went that same evening on which we had met Giraldi at an

entertainment at the French Ambassador's to my husband, and told him

that I wished to return home--the next day. He had given no reason when

he threw up his post and brought me here into this solitude, and I

thought I might also keep silence on the reasons which took me from

Rome and the world into solitude. Neither did he inquire. He had

already seen--had, like all the world, perceived the extraordinary

charm which was even more remarkable in the man who had ripened to such

splendid maturity under a tropical sun, than in the fascinating youth

of former days; he probably remembered what kind friends then no doubt

had told him, and what in his pride and self-confidence he had

certainly not believed. And now this confidence was not broken; but it

was shaken. The past years, so empty and joyless, stood out before his

startled eyes in a strange and suspicious light. All I had suffered and

been deprived of must have come before him. But it was still not too

late, in his eyes. I wished to do my duty apparently by flying from

temptation. He accepted silently what in his opinion was a matter of

course. We left the next morning, and went home.

"And now commenced a dark and fearful drama which I shudder to look

upon, even now that the entangled threads have become clear before my

eyes. We had curiously changed our parts. Whilst I, proud of the

victory I had obtained over myself, held my head up and took a

melancholy pleasure in the renunciation to which I doomed myself, he

suffered more and more from the disquietude which had until now

possessed me; he was tortured by longings after a happiness which I had

resigned. He had married me because I was young, handsome, and

brilliant; perhaps had also fancied at the time that he loved me, after

his fashion. Now he loved me for the first time with all the passion of

which he was capable, and which must be the more fatal to him, that he,

to whom a calm bearing had always been the ideal of a gentleman, was

ashamed of his passion, and would certainly give no expression to it;

and, what was worse than all, he must see, or fancy he saw, that he was

too late in treading the path which led to my heart--which perhaps even

now would have led to it. It is so hard for a woman to shut her heart

against the charm which the knowledge that she is loved sheds around

her. I saw how he suffered. I suffered terribly under it; for I held it

to be impossible that I could ever return his sentiments; yet I

suffered with him, and pity is so near akin to love! If children had

played around us, perhaps everything would have happened differently,

and I truly believe that their gracious influence at this stage of our

affairs would have brought about a happier ending. But as it was, the

reckoning was not between father and mother, but always between man and

wife, and childless marriages are only too fruitful a source of

sorrowful home tragedies. And yet all would have gone, if not well, at

least better in time, which gradually buries so many raging flames

under its embers, had not my husband been taken possession of by an

unlucky thought, which became a fixed idea. What had appeared to him,

so long as he had not loved me, as a piece of wisdom and diplomatic

reserve--namely, our leaving Rome--now appeared to him in the light of

a shameful flight, a miserable cowardice, which he could never forgive

himself, which I could never forgive him, and which, infatuated as he

was, he now held to be the principal--the only reason, indeed--that I

remained cold to him, whilst he was consumed with love. He could not,

as usual, find any soothing, explanatory words for the agitated

condition of his heart.

"I should be in the dark now as to this portion of my unhappy history

had I not learnt the real circumstances from letters of your father,

which my husband on his second departure from Rome left in his desk,

and which afterwards were found by Giraldi and shown to me. It appeared

from these letters that my husband confided everything to his friend,

and had begged his advice especially with respect to the fatal plan

with which he deluded himself. Your father advised most strongly

against it; not that he doubted that I should be victorious in the

struggle to which I was to be exposed--a Werben would always, and in

all circumstances, do her duty--but because he took the whole thing for

a romance, that might do very well in a French play, but was altogether

out of place in the realities of German life, and particularly in the

case of a German nobleman and his wife. If we had not found happiness

in our marriage, he certainly deplored it with all his heart; but he

knew of no other remedy than the determination not to depart from the

good and right course; and should this means prove unavailing, there

was nothing for a man to do but to accept in all humility the fate

which he had assuredly prepared for himself, and bear it with dignity

as inevitable. We were not sent on earth to be happy, but to do our

duty.

"Oh, Elsa! with what sensations did I at that time read this letter,

which I took to be the perfect expression of a mind which had forgotten

all human emotions in the formalities of the service, and which

revolted me the more as I had clung to him who could so write with true

sisterly love, and believed myself beloved by him as by a brother. What

terrible experiences were needed before I understood what great though

bitter wisdom, and how much true love, was in these words!

"A second journey to Rome was announced to me, like all these

resolutions, in the most courteous manner, but with a tacit assumption

of my assent. It was not my fault that I also had meanwhile learnt to

conceal my feelings. In the company of taciturn people even sympathetic

minds become silenced at last, and then for ever. I saw beforehand what

would happen--yes, I was determined that it should happen. I have not

concealed from you the frivolous levity with which I approached the

altar. The evil disposition of my young and half-corrupted heart had

not been fulfilled. I had continued a better woman than I had believed

myself--yes, I may say I had grown better in time. Now that all my

honest efforts were fruitless, that I knew them to be slighted and

misunderstood, that I saw fate insolently challenged by the man who

should have been grateful to me for having preserved myself and him

from it by such great sacrifices of my own heart--now I became worse

than I had ever been--now I became truly bad. I scoffed in my inmost

heart at the madman who strove to gather grapes from thorns; I secretly

derided the vain fool who could imagine for a moment that he could

prevail in the struggle with the noblest of mankind; I triumphed

beforehand over his downfall.

"It is terrible to have to say all this to you; all the more terrible

as it did not remain the mere fancy of a distorted imagination, but was

all, all most horribly fulfilled."

Valerie, who sat crouched up on the sofa, hid her face shuddering in

her hands. A cold shiver ran through her slender form. Elsa would

willingly have begged her to leave off for that day, but she felt that

she could not take the bitter cup from the lips of the unhappy woman,

to whom it gave one drop of comfort that a sympathising human eye

should at last look down into the depths of her misery.

She comforted her with tender words, gave her a glass of water, which

the exhausted woman hastily drank with feverish lips, and then again

seized Elsa's hand, which she had all along held tightly in hers, and

went on with her sorrowful confession, whilst the storm howled without

like a band of demons whose victim was trying to escape them from the

gates of hell.

"Alas that I cannot relate further without offending your pure ears, as

I have already troubled your pure mind. But it must be. What is bad

cannot be expressed in good words; and from the moment when I again

touched Rome's venerable soil everything in my life was for long,

endless years soiled and tainted, until at last I looked almost with

envy upon the poor women in the streets. I was in the hands of one who

seemed to have risen from the bottomless pit to destroy both body and

soul. And yet it was years and years before this knowledge began to

dawn upon me; years before the abhorrence grew into secret rebellion,

and if this rebellion expresses itself in action, as I hope and pray to

God it may, it is you, you only, I have to thank. I owe it to the new

life that I have drunk from your loving looks, to the courage with

which your strong, noble love has inspired me, which without neglecting

one single duty, has looked steadfastly through all impediments to its

one lofty star. I owe it to my longing to win your love, to be worthy

of it as far as lies within my power, as far as the deepest repentance

may expiate the heaviest guilt. I might call it a sudden insanity that

threw me into the arms of this terrible man, in other words, that

brought me to my ruin; and many things conspired together, too, to dull

my feelings and judgment; the long torture which I had borne, and borne

in vain, the violence with which I had been torn from such a hard-won

act of resignation, the madness of a passion which, after having so

long been forcibly restrained, now overflowed all barriers; the unholy

charm which guilt offers to an undisciplined mind! How many have fallen

who had not such temptations! But that this insanity lasted so long!

that I should have known I was mad! that I chose to be so! It all

appears to me now like a dark dream, in spite of the golden sun of

Italy which illuminated it, of the perfume of orange blossom which

surrounded it, and of the gentle tides of the blue sea which flowed

about it. My husband had, after a few months, given up the futile

struggle; he had gone away, beaten, broken down, without even the

strength to come to any decision, only giving me permission in writing

to remain away as long as I pleased. Whether he hoped that this

apparent magnanimity would touch me, or that his absence would appeal

more strongly to my heart than his presence, that the separation would

teach me what I might lose in him--what I had already lost--I do not

know. I only know that I had nothing but scorn and derision for what I

called his pitiful flight, without a shadow of pity for him, even if I

thought of him at all, or of anything but of enjoying my freedom to its

fullest extent. And had I wished to follow him, as I did not wish, I

could not have done so. Even before he fled I was fettered to him from

whom he fled, by the strongest chains by which a woman can be bound to

the man of her choice. But what so often brings about a transformation

in a woman's life, what leads even the most frivolous to reflection,

and awakens in her nobler feelings, brought no repentance to me,

even--terrible to say--no joy. I needed no pledge of his love; and it

brought to him whose path I would have strewn with roses, only care and

perplexity.

"He had had no trouble in convincing me that my condition must remain a

profound secret to all the world. Our hope was that my husband would

himself insist upon a divorce, and as we--thanks to the devilish

ingenuity of that fearful man--had never openly violated public

decorum, as my husband had gone of his own free will, he leaving me,

not I him, the separation could only terminate in my--that is in

our--favour. Our fates were now irrevocably joined.

"And now came a circumstance which--Oh, Elsa! Elsa! have pity on me!

How can I tell you? We reckoned on, we hoped for, my husband's death.

From Giraldi's spies--he has them all over the world--we heard that my

husband was ill, then that his illness was taking a serious turn, at

last that the doctors gave no hope, even if the end did not come

immediately. We tremblingly awaited the messenger who should summon me

to his sick-bed; we thought over what excuses I should make if I did

not obey the call; but the messenger never came. But neither did that

come for which we waited in more intense suspense, as my time drew ever

nearer. Though indeed we should not have been easily found. We had

hidden ourselves deep in the mountains in a lonely place between Amalfi

and Salerno. My old Feldner was our only companion. The loveliest boy

was born, and as soon as I was able to move, was left in the hands of

the faithful woman. It was necessary again to show myself before the

world, and talk in the drawing-rooms of Naples about Sicily, through

which we had hurriedly passed, and where I was supposed to have spent

the last few months. And not one pang of remorse, not one wish to hear

of or see the innocent child, left up in the mountains! To say that I

was mad is perhaps the right word!

"But my husband still lived, and news came from Feldner that

travellers--acquaintances of ours--had passed through her mountain

retreat, and that she had only escaped discovery by the merest chance.

The faithful soul begged us to liberate her and the child from their

isolation. She asked if I did not wish to see the dear little creature

again. A queen would be proud of such a child!

"Intoxicated though I was with the poisonous draught of sinful passion

which none knew better than he how to mix, the cry for help from the

faithful woman pierced my obdurate heart. I wanted to see my child; I

wanted to have it with me. It was needed to fulfil my happiness.

Nothing short of a full, even overflowing happiness would now content

me. He had to bring all the force of his powers of persuasion to

keep me from a step which he assured me would overthrow all our

carefully-arranged plans. 'And if you do not consider yourself,' he

cried, 'whom such an open admission of your position would reduce to

beggary, think of our son, who would become a beggar with you. His

future depends upon our caution, our foresight, our prudence; but

prudence enjoins us to leave him in concealment until everything is

decided, even, as his present place of abode has been shown not to

afford sufficient security, to remove him to deeper concealment. It is

only a question of a short time, of a few weeks, perhaps days. Trust me

in this, as you have hitherto trusted me in all things. Leave it to me;

I have already considered and prepared everything.'

"He communicated his plan to me. We had visited Pœstum in the spring.

The young and handsome guide who had conducted us over the ruins had

left an agreeable impression on my mind, as well as the plump little

wife whom he had lately brought home there. I had envied both these

poor people their unconcealed happiness. 'Those are the people,' said

Giraldi, 'to whom to entrust our Cesare. The young wife will think

but little of such an addition to her cares, and the strong husband

will be an admirable protector to the child. Moreover, the presence

of a detachment of soldiers at P[oe]stum is sufficient to ensure his

safety.' He silenced my doubts, set aside every objection, and went to

carry out his plan--alone. I dared not at this moment, when a thousand

suspicious eyes watched us, when we were assuredly surrounded by

invisible spies, leave the town on any account.

"He was back by the evening of the next day. All had gone perfectly as

arranged. The child was well; the good Panaris (that was the name of

the guide) full of joy over the treasure confided to them, which to

these poor people became naturally a real treasure.

"Quite different indeed was the account of Feldner, who had accompanied

him on the expedition. She painted with the utmost horror the wilds

they had passed through, and over whose burnt-up surface malaria

breathed its poison, and the pale, fever-stricken countenances of

the poor inhabitants in the ruinous, dirty huts. The Panaris, too,

had been ready enough to undertake the charge of the child, but the

man was not without many doubts, which he had secretly imparted to

her. The brigands were just then gathered in unwonted force in the

mountains, and in spite of the soldiers posted in various places, and

of the military escorts which accompanied travellers from Salerno

or Battipagha to Pœstum, robberies had taken place in the immediate

neighbourhood of the ruins. He could the less answer absolutely for the

safety of the child, as he was himself never for a moment sure that his

own property, perhaps even his own life, was safe.

"Unfortunately, out of fear of Giraldi, Feldner only let out these

warnings gradually and cautiously. I myself, who had only been to

Pœstum in the spring, and seen the broad plains covered with tender

green, and gleaming in the mildest sunshine, naturally looked upon one

cause of this anxiety as exaggerated, and Giraldi laughed to scorn

the other objections. 'At the worst,' he said, 'it is an attempt on

the part of the Panaris to get higher pay, which moreover I am quite

willing to give them; and do you buy a silk dress and a coral ornament

from the Chiaja for your duenna, that is all she wants. Only patience

for a few days!'

"And as if fate itself were bound to serve him, a few days later news

came that my husband had breathed his last here in Warnow, and with the

announcement of his death came a copy of his will.

"I was distracted; I could have wished the world to come to an end,

when all the happiness for which I had hoped, in which I had already

revelled, lay shattered before me. I swear to you, it is the one bright

spot in the infernal darkness of my unhappy soul that I never thought

of myself. I lived only for him, lied for him, intrigued for him,

stifled the voice of nature for him. I would have lived in a hovel with

him, and in the sweat of my brow worked for the daily bread of us both.

I would--but let me keep silence upon what I would have done for

him--the infamy is too great as it is.

"He smiled his sarcastic smile. He did not believe in love in a

cottage. My husband's disbelief in all unselfish sentiments had

revolted me; here I only saw the right to a demand which so

finely-organised a nature made upon life; nay, must make if it would

not lose any of the charm which surrounded it. But if the will forbade

me, under penalty of disinheritance, to call the man I loved my husband

before all the world, there was no such penalty attached to a shame of

which he had never thought, it did not forbid me to recognise my child.

I would have my child at once. I had so much at least to retrieve.

"Now, I cried, that we are denied the luxury of a legitimate position,

now that we are driven back to the sources from which we have drawn so

deeply without asking anyone's permission--to nature and love--not one

link shall fail of the chain which nature and love can forge; now for

the first time I feel how only the pledge of our love can make our bond

complete and indestructible. Let us not lose one moment.

"A feverish impatience had taken possession of me, which he--and oh!

how thankful I was to him--appeared fully to share. I see him now, pale

and disturbed, pacing through the room, and then standing still and

spurring on Feldner, who in the hurry could not collect the child's

things, and myself even to greater haste.

"'We do not want to lose a moment,' he cried, 'and we are losing hours,

which are perhaps irretrievable.'

"We were getting into the carriage (there was no railway then), which

would take us by Battipaglia to Pœstum, when an old woman, who had been

crouched on the steps of the hotel, hobbled up, and in the cool way of

a Neapolitan beggar, pulled him back by the tail of his coat, just as

he had his foot on the step.

"He turned unwillingly, and--I have tried a thousand times in vain to

recall the particulars of this scene--Feldner and I must have been just

then arranging ourselves in the carriage. I only know that when I

looked round at him the old woman was disappearing round the corner of

the hotel, with greater activity than I should have given her credit

for, whilst he, with his back to us, was standing in the entrance of

the hotel apparently reading a letter. He then came out again. 'I had

another direction to give to the porter,' he said, as he sat down by us

and pressed my hand with a smile, saying, '_Coraggio, anima mia!

coraggio!_'

"'_Coraggio!_' I answered tenderly, returning the pressure. His face

was so pale, his eyes looked so gloomy, that he seemed to me to need

more encouragement than I did.

"It was evening before we reached Battipaglia. The little place,

from which travellers over the lonely plain were in the habit of

taking their military escort, was in great excitement. A company of

Bersaglieri had just marched hastily through, a second company was

on its way from Salerno to Pœstum, a third was lying in wait for the

robbers in the mountains. Such a measure had become really necessary.

The robbers had swarmed before the very gates of Salerno, and for days

past no one could venture out of Battipaglia into the country. From

Pœstum no news had come for the same time, and the worst was feared for

the poor dwellers there.

"An inexpressible terror came over me. The unhappy child in the midst

of this universal distress, in the very centre of the horrors! It was

in vain now that Giraldi attempted to calm me by arguing that the

approach of the troops gave promise of safety; I would not, I could not

listen to anything; I could say nothing but 'On! on!'

"The people said we should not get far, and in fact we had scarcely

gone a mile before we came up with a large body of soldiers, whose

young officer courteously but decidedly ordered us back. The carriage

had passed the lines against the distinct order of the colonel, and we

could go no farther, as the banditti had rendered the bridge over the

Sele impracticable for carriages and horses; very likely at this moment

there was fighting in the open field before Pœstum. To-morrow the roads

would be safer than they had ever been before; we must have patience so

long.

"No prayers, no supplications availed. Back to Battipaglia! The

impossibility of reaching the child, the fear of losing it, perhaps of

having already lost it, drove me almost frantic. For the first time

Giraldi had lost his power over me. He left me to my despair in the

miserable inn and wandered about out of doors. It was a fearful night!

"The next morning the roads were, as the officer had promised, free.

He thought it his duty to bring us the news himself, advising us,

however, to postpone to another time our romantic trip. We had wanted

to see Pœstum yesterday by moonlight! Good God! It looked melancholy

in Pœstum. The little hotel was a ruin, the house of the guide Panari

destroyed, he himself dangerously wounded in the defence of a strange

child, which had been entrusted to him, and which the banditti had

carried off to the mountains. This had taken place unfortunately the

evening before last, so that the robbers had had time to convey to a

place of safety their prey, on which indeed they must set great store,

as they had made the most tremendous efforts to attain it, and had put

themselves in such evident danger to place it in safety. There was,

however, still a hope of snatching their prey from them. The pursuit

was hot, and the precautionary measures well laid out. The lady might

for the present calm her compassionate heart, and moreover, even if the

child were to be pitied, the unnatural parents who had placed their

child in such danger deserved no pity. Who could tell that they had not

themselves planned the robbery, the better to hide the living witness

of their shame, and that the pursuit of their accomplices was more than

inconvenient to them? Such things had happened before.

"Oh! Elsa! Elsa! when the young man spoke these words so

unsuspiciously, I did not venture to look up for shame and horror; I

had provoked this fate. I 'deserved no pity!' and yet--and yet----

"But there was yet a possibility of escaping from this hell of anguish.

Bandits were almost daily brought in--men, women, and children! 'It is

not our Cesare,' said Feldner. I---- Good God! I should not have known

with certainty if it were my child. Feldner cried quietly to herself

night after night, that she had been robbed of her heart's-blood, her

sweet little Cesare. I forbade her to cry. I threatened to dismiss her.

I would not endure that he who appeared to suffer so terribly under the

blow should be still further distressed by her complaints. He had in no

way given up hope; prisoners had reported that a certain Lazzaro

Cecutti, one of their principal leaders, who had for reasons unknown to

them conducted the actual robbery of the child, with two others who had

fallen in the fight, and his mother, with whom he had sent the child

into the mountains, could alone give any information as to the

destination of the same. Why should not Lazzaro or old Barbara be taken

prisoners, like so many others? But they were not taken.

"'They are too cunning,' said Giraldi; 'they will not let themselves be

taken; but when the pursuit is over, and that will soon be, the ardour

of our authorities dies quickly, they will emerge in some distant spot

and demand the ransom, which is naturally the only thing they care for;

and on that very account we may be easy about our child, they will

treasure it as the apple of their eye. Everything for them depends upon

the child.'

"'But how will they find us?' I asked; 'we who by your direction have

never openly claimed the child, have never offered a reward for his

restoration?'

"'Those are measures,' said Giraldi, 'which would only have drawn upon

us the attention of the public and the officials; that is to say, would

have made it more difficult for the robbers to come to us unnoticed.

You do not know either the loquacity or the cunning of my country

people. The Panaris have assuredly not kept their counsel, and Lazzaro,

before he achieved the robbery, knew our address better even than the

police authorities; and when Italian bandits want to get a ransom they

can find their men, wherever they may be. And believe me, they will

find us.'

"The pursuit came to an end, very quickly too, astonishingly so, the

papers said. It was at an end, but Lazzaro and his mother appeared

neither here nor elsewhere. No one talked any more about the affair, it

was buried in profound silence; the silence of death! Lazzaro was

dead--he must be dead--he and his mother, and--my child! They, wounded

to the death, drawing out their last breath in some deep and lonely

mountain glen; the child, whom they no doubt kept with them to the end,

hungry and thirsty, perishing miserably.

"Giraldi himself had to give it up at last. Heaven, he trusted, would

send compensation. But Heaven, who had seen our firstborn given over to

be a prey to the fox and the eagle, would not confide a second to such

unnatural parents. The one so ruthlessly sacrificed remained the only

one.

"And here I anticipate my narrative by years, in saying, that I thank

God it remained the only one. More, I shudder at the thought that this

child of sin and shame may still be living, may one day step out from

the darkness which has so long enveloped him, may appear before me and

say, 'Here I am; Cesare, your son.' Oh! Elsa, Elsa, everything is

crushed and destroyed in me. How can my feelings be simple and natural

like other people's? How can I do other than shudder at the possibility

of finding him again when I think to myself how I must find him, who

has grown up amongst robbers and murderers? in whom I have no share,

save that I bore him, in whose soul I have no part? The son who would

only come to help his father to rivet again the worn-out chain at the

very time when I was in the act of breaking the last link? He feels and

knows this. And it is by no chance, therefore, that he now, at this

very time, has again and again conjured up that terrible picture--ah!

no one understands as he does that devilish art!--Cesare is not dead.

Cesare lives; wandering about the world in lowly guise, shortly to

throw off the peasant dress and stand before us in his bright beauty.

"And I am to believe him--I, who have long been convinced, with my

faithful Feldner, that what the young officer had thrown out as

conjecture and possibility, with soldierly bluntness, was the terrible

truth. He had taken the unhappy child to the foot of the mountains in

the wilds of Pœstum, from whose barren slopes the robbers descend on

to the plain, that he might be carried off at any time, that is, as

soon as I showed a serious intention of producing him before the world,

before the right time came. He--he himself had thrown the prey to these

villains. He had learnt from the woman who came to the carriage-door

that the villainous plot was carried into execution, at the moment

when he would have given anything not to have contrived it. And then

it unfortunately happened that at that very time the raid against the

robbers was taken in hand by the Government, but at any rate the crime

remained undiscovered; he could still raise his insolent eyes to mine

as before.

"It is terrible to have to relate this, and to feel that though it was

years and years before my blindness was in some measure removed, and I

began to estimate the depth of my misery, I still endured it so long.

But however slight the bond that unites bad men, that between a

thoroughly bad man and one who is not utterly lost to nobler impulses

is almost unbreakable, especially when that other is a woman. If she

has repented her sinful life, and would turn with horror and aversion

from her destroyer, fear prevents it; and if fear is forgotten in the

excess of sorrow, she is bound once more and for ever by the shame of

having to confess that she has so long been the companion of the

reprobate.

"Oh, Elsa! I have gone through all these horrible phases. I thank

heaven and you, whom heaven has sent to me, that at last I have come to

the end.

"When we came here in the autumn, my soul was filled with terror, like

a criminal who has escaped with noiseless tread from his prison, and is

terrified at the trembling of a leaf. I knew that the crisis was

approaching on all sides, that a word, a look, might betray me, the

more so that suspicion had certainly been roused in him. A sure sign of

this was that he no longer trusted his accomplices. All our servants

have always been such. Even my old Feldner had long been in his

pay--apparently. She takes the wages of sin, with which he pays her

betrayal of her mistress, and we give it to the poor. She says nothing

to him but what we have agreed upon beforehand. But since we have been

here, he no longer employs her. He must even have begun to suspect

François, a crafty bad man, who had at first promised to be a

particularly useful tool, and rightly. Whether Giraldi has offended

him, or the clever Feldner has won him over, he has come over to us.

But he also has no longer anything to tell. It seems that his last

commission, to accompany and watch me here, was only a pretext to get

him away from Berlin, where Giraldi is weaving the last meshes of his

net. Let him. I fear him and his devilish arts no longer, now that an

angel has spread its pure wings over me.

"He has long lied to me as he has to all the world. The last time that

he divulged his plans to me, and then only in part, was on the morning

after my arrival in Berlin, a few minutes before I saw your dear face

for the first time. I may not, and will not importune you with the

repulsive details; it is enough for you to know, that with the courage

to oppose him, I have also the power to frustrate his plans.

"The net, into the toils of which he thinks to bring you, will close

around his own guilty head. When he comes to me to-morrow, sneering at

the intelligence which the Count and Carla will hasten to impart to

him, that Elsa von Werben has forfeited her inheritance, he shall have

his answer, and if he announces in triumph that Ottomar has also

returned to his forsaken love, and equally forfeits his inheritance, he

shall not long await his answer; and if with lips trembling with

passion he asks how I, his tool, his slave, have dared to rebel against

my lord and master, I will seize you by the hand and say, 'Away from

me, tempter! back into the darkness of your hell, Satan! before this

angel of light!'"

With the last words, Valerie had slipped from the sofa to Elsa's feet,

her weeping face hidden in her lap, and kissing her hands and dress in

an excess of agitation, which only too clearly proved what terrible

anguish the dreadful confession had cost her, with what rapture her

poor heart, which so thirsted for comfort, was now filled. It was long

before Elsa could in any degree calm her, only at last through the

consideration that she must gather up all her strength for the

interview with Giraldi next day, and that a few hours' sleep after such

a day was indispensable. She would remain with her. She must allow her

good angel to watch even over her slumbers.

She got the exhausted, broken-down woman to bed. It was long before her

quicker breathing showed that Nature had asserted her rights. But at

last she lay really asleep. Elsa sat by the bed, and gazed with deep

sympathy upon that still lovely, noble, deathly-white face.

And then she thought of him whose image during her aunt's story had

ever stood out in her mind, as if it were to him and not to her that

the confession was being made. As if he and not she had here to decide,

to judge, and to absolve. And as another tremendous clap of thunder now

shook the old castle, and the sleeper moaned in terror, she folded her

hands, not in fear, but in thankful emotion that whilst her lover was

risking his dear life to save the lives of others, she was also

permitted to pilot a human soul out of the storm of passion and sin

into the haven of love, and that their works of salvation would succeed

for the sake of their mutual love.

CHAPTER V.

The storm was raging that night through the straight streets of Berlin

also.

Let it! What does one more discomfort signify to us, as we hurry along

the pavement? We are accustomed to discomforts of every sort; and if a

tile or a slate falls down occasionally at our feet, we have not been

struck yet, thank goodness! And if a chimney should be blown down, or a

new house fall in, or anything of that sort, we shall read about it in

the papers to-morrow. We have weightier matters to consider, truly! The

storm which raged through the Chambers to-day during the debates, will

also unroof many a fine edifice on the Stock Exchange in quite another

fashion, and many a great house which appeared this morning to stand

firm enough, and command the market, will be shattered to its

foundations, and will drag others down with it to disgraceful failure.

Like this one here for instance; it is just finished after years of

labour, having cost untold sums, and its magnificence having roused the

astonishment of everybody who was favoured with a view of it, and the

eager curiosity of the many who were obliged to content themselves with

a sight of the lofty scaffolding. Was it not to be opened to-night with

a great ball, of which for the last fortnight such wonders have been

related? To be sure! And it is really a curious coincidence that it

should take place just to-day, when the lightning has struck the

neighbouring houses, that stand upon the same insecure foundations,

have been erected from the same disgraceful materials, and are in every

respect the same miserable swindle from basement to roof. I should not

like to stand in that man's shoes.

Nor I either, my dear friend, but, believe me, our virtuous

indignation, if he could be aware of it, would only be an additional

satisfaction to this man. He has landed his goods in safety. What does

it matter to him if you, or I, or anybody be drowned in the rushing

stream from which there is no escape except for him and such as him?

Who asked us to venture into the water? You thought, perhaps, that if

he were not prevented from giving this feast by the black Care that

sits behind him, he must be so by very shame, especially today when he

and the whole brood of them have been branded with the mark of Cain

upon their brows. And now look I look up at this splendid façade, see

how the light from the innumerable wax candles streams through the

great plate-glass windows, with their crimson silk hangings, and shines

like daylight upon us out here in the dark! No contemptible gas except

in the passages and corridors! That is how it is in the Emperor's

palace, and he must have the same. That splendid awning before the

door, which is being blown about by the wind, the Brussels carpet which

is laid in the dirt of the street from the door to the carriages, will

be thrown into the dust-hole to-morrow in rags and tatters. Why not?

That is what they are for. But come--the police are already beginning

to look indignantly at us. They suspect our wicked doubts about the

sacred rights of order, which consist in plate-glass windows, marble

doorways, fringed awnings, and Brussels carpets. Or have you got a card

of invitation like Justus Anders there, who is lost in wonder over the

varnished boots which so seldom deck his feet, and is in trouble about

his new hat, with handsome Antonio following as his aide-de-camp,

hastening in without noticing us his best friends; but do not look

morosely at him, and hurl no anathemas at him out of the depths of your

injured, democratic conscience. The poet is the equal of the king, and

the artist must be the equal of the speculator. Those are laws which we

must respect. And now let us go and drink a glass to Lasker's health.

Only this one more carriage? Oh! you rogue! because there are ladies'

dresses--it serves you right! Old Kniebreche. _Sauve qui peut!_

The old Baroness was of course there. She was everywhere, it was said,

where anything was to be seen. She had been present at the creation of

the world, and would assist at its end. She had first intended to let

Ottomar get her an invitation, but eventually entrusted the honour to

Herr von Wallbach. The dissension between the Werbens and the Wallbachs

was no longer a secret, at least from her. Dear Giraldi, who was,

however, discretion itself, and really only repeated what could

absolutely no longer be concealed, had told her something--too

terrible, but still not so terrible as what that good Wallbach, who had

fetched her in his carriage, had related to her on the way.

"Poor, poor Carla! Absolutely deserted on account of a pretty girl of

no family, whom his former mistress had had to intercede with for him.

Wallbach was going to show her at this very ball the principal

performer in this pretty story, a dancer from an obscure theatre.

Wallbach must be sure to remember! She was so curious to see this

person. In such an utter scandal, it was impossible to be too careful

about the most trifling details. And if dear Carla had tried to comfort

herself in her grief--of course, my dear Wallbach, what was she to do?

It speaks for itself. And she had the dear Count there under her very

hand! _Oh! Mon Dieu!_ How I have been deceived in Ottomar, but they

have, none of them, been good for anything. I knew his grandfather,

and even saw his great grandfather when I was a little girl. But

the old gentleman would turn in his grave if he knew what his

great-grandchildren were doing. And Elsa--my dear Wallbach, I suppose I

must believe that story, but it is a strong measure for a General's

daughter. As to Ottomar drawing lots of bills of exchange--I know whole

regiments who do it; but there I stop--further than that I cannot go,

unless I heard it from his own lips."

"But, my dear lady, I conjure you by all that is sacred, be discreet."

"Do you take me for a baby--for a goose, for I don't know what? You

have no business to talk like that to old Kniebreche, who might be your

grandmother. Give me your arm, and point out a few interesting people.

Will Lasker be here, too? What do you say? One ought not to talk of the

hangman.-- What is it to me if tag and rag fall out together? But our

worthy host--do point him out to me--the big, broad-shouldered man with

the fine forehead and full chin? A fine-looking man. Bring him to me at

once!"

Philip was charmed, at last and in his own house, to become personally

acquainted with a lady who was reckoned amongst the few celebrities in

which Berlin rejoices. Now, for the first time, he could venture to say

that his entertainment had not proved a failure. Would her ladyship

allow him the honour of conducting her to the ball-room? Unfortunately

he had not been able to restrain any longer the young people's desire

to begin dancing, or he would certainly have asked her ladyship to have

led the polonaise with him. He flattered himself that she would not

feel herself too isolated at his house, though several illustrious

names would not appear in the list of those present; as, for instance,

that of Count Golm. One could not have everything and everybody at

once. He was, and always had been, a modest man; and that "a king's

glory was his state, and our glory was the labour of our hands," was a

saying which he had, all his life, held to, and hoped to continue to do

so. Were the pillars which supported the orchestra real marble?

Certainly. He was the son of a worker in marble. He might say that

everything her ladyship saw here was real, save, perhaps, a little of

the colour on the ladies' cheeks, about which, for his part, he had

secret doubts; and the nobility of a few barons and baronesses, which

might also seem a little doubtful to her ladyship. The Stock Exchange

seemed nowadays to be all-powerful, but after all, however long the

train might be, and whatever quantity of diamonds were worn in the

hair, or sewn on the dress, what a difference there was between

Baroness Kniebreche and Baroness---- He would name no names, but a

difference there must always be. Would her ladyship permit him to offer

her some refreshments? they were here close by.

"Quite a presentable man for a parvenu," whispered Baroness

Kniebreche into the ear of Baroness von Holzweg, whom she met in the

refreshment-room in the midst of a group of great ladies. "He

understands the art of living, it must be allowed. There is not a more

magnificent room in Berlin, even at his Majesty's, only here it is much

more comfortable. What a capital idea to put a refreshment-room so

close to the ball-room, and such good things too. What have you got

there, my dear! Oyster patties? Delicious! Young man, bring some oyster

patties and a glass of Chateau Yquem. How well that sort of man

understands bringing people together. Of course there are all the tag

and rag here--actors, dancers, heaven knows what! But if one does not

look too closely one might imagine oneself at a court ball. The

ballroom absolutely swarms with guardsmen. Well, young people, I cannot

blame you; you are cocks of the walk here. _À propos_, what brought you

here, dear Baroness?"

"Quite between ourselves, dear Baroness," whispered Baroness Holzweg.

"Of course between ourselves!" cried Baroness Kniebreche.

"Prince Wladimir is expected to be here for a moment."

"'You don't say so! Of course you and your niece could not fail. But

take care! The 'illustrious lovers' are getting quite common. Come,

come, I meant no harm; I readily allow the greatest latitude in the

upper circles, if only the proprieties are observed as regards the

lower ranks. But such things are going on now, dear Baroness--such

things!"

And Baroness Kniebreche began waving her gigantic fan with much energy.

"May I venture to ask, dear Baroness?" whispered Baroness Holzweg,

drawing nearer, in curiosity.

"Well, quite between ourselves, you know, dear Baroness."

"How can you imagine, dear Baroness--"

The heads of the two old ladies disappeared for a long time behind the

black fan.

"And these are all facts, dear Baroness?"

"Absolute facts. I have them from Wallbach, who is generally discretion

itself--but there are limits to everything. Is not that him there

behind the door? Actually! and talking to Signor Giraldi. I must go

there. That good man absolutely hears the grass grow."

The old lady got up with difficulty, and rustled off, with her glass to

her half-blind eyes, towards the two gentlemen, every one retreating,

scared, before the black fan.

Baroness Holzweg remained sitting, with an evil smile upon her pale,

puffy face.

"Ah!" she murmured, "how pleased Agnes will be. The haughty Herr von

Werben, who will not dance with her, because he can understand either

secret or open engagements, but not those that cannot be made public!

And his arrogant sister, whom he has forbidden to have anything to do

with Agnes, and who has now taken up with a merchant-captain.

Charming!"

"What is amusing you so, my dear?" asked Frau von Pusterhausen, coming

back again to her friend. "You were talking such secrets with Baroness

Kniebreche, and I could not get away from Madame Veitel, or whatever

she calls herself. She chatters and chatters--I only heard a few

words--you seemed to be talking about the Werbens? Am I right? And can

you tell me what it was about?"

"But it remains between ourselves, my dear?"

"You may be quite easy, my dear."

And the two ladies put their heads together, one maliciously listening,

the other spitefully retailing what she had herself just heard.

Giraldi, after he had wandered through the rooms for half an hour, met

Herr von Wallbach, who had luckily got away from the Baroness.

"I was just going," he said; "the heat, the noise, the everlasting talk

about Lasker----"

Herr von Wallbach passed his hand over his bald forehead with a gentle

sigh. "To be sure," he said, "Lasker! it is a terrible blow. Such a

splendid business. We shall never recover the blow, although he has not

directly attacked us. It is the beginning of the end, believe me."

"I do not think it looks so bad," said Giraldi. "It is only the first

shock; our Ministers have certainly behaved miserably, the mob will

triumph, but the reaction cannot be long in coming. They will find that

the sun of radicalism, which shines so brightly just now, is itself not

without a flaw. The Government, if only to anger the opposition, will

guarantee the interest for a sufficient loan for a time, and probably

afterwards take over the whole business. The promoters must have acted

worse than stupidly if a good slice does not fall to their share,

amongst others to our friend the Count."

"Nevertheless we--I mean the Warnow trustees--may have to wait a long

time for the payment of the second instalment," said Herr von Wallbach

thoughtfully.

"I am certain of that," answered Giraldi. "You may thank your

forbearance, which has lasted until the shares with which you paid him

have gone down so far. If I had only been listened to, he must have

paid the whole million at once, when the shares stood at seventy-five;

it would have been possible, and he would still have retained nearly

half a million."

"Yes, true," said Herr von Wallbach, "it has again been proved that you

are the best financier amongst us. It is lucky that we got the first

instalment. The money, if all happens as you say, is as good as the

Baroness's property already; but, nevertheless, we must one of these

days--I wanted to remind you of that--meet once more, as a matter of

form, to receive your report. You have still got the money at

Haselow's?"

"Where else?"

"I only mention it because we left the investment absolutely to you. I

wish to heaven the time had already come when I was quit of the whole

thing. At any rate I shall make Schieler represent me at the trustees'

meeting. When a man is on the point of breaking with the son, he cannot

very well be on friendly terms with the father."

"Pay Ottomar's bills to-morrow; close one eye to certain mistakes in

the signatures which must be amongst them--how should he have managed

otherwise?--shut the other to the fair Ferdinanda, and everything

remains as it was."

"Do not joke about it. At the best there will be a fearful scandal."

"Better too early than too late. And besides, if the public hear of the

new engagement at the same time that they hear of the breaking off of

the other, all will be well again."

Herr von Wallbach looked very thoughtful.

"Since this morning, since that terrible speech," he said, "the Count's

position has become much worse. I don't know what will become of him

now."

"Pardon me," answered Giraldi; "to my mind the affair looks quite

different. The respite is an immense gain for the Count. There are so

many chances. The shares may go up again, or the powerful hand which

enabled him to pay the first instalment may be held out to him again.

If it is not, why, the trustees must agree to a compromise--say

twenty-five per cent. off; that is to say, the Count can pay up

seventy-five. And after all he has always got the entailed estates."

"True, true," said Herr von Wallbach; "that would always remain to

him."

He passed his hand over his forehead.

"Have you seen Werben yet?"

"He will hardly come. He is more agreeably employed. Bertalda has again

lent her house to the loving couple, and is dancing away the sorrows of

her young widowhood. The polka is over. I will beg for a few more

details from the communicative little thing, in case they may be of use

to you. I shall see you perhaps to-morrow. For to-day, _Addio_."

Giraldi turned away at the very moment that Baroness Kniebreche came

up, and slipped into the ball-room, making as he passed a sign to

Bertalda, whom he met on the arm of a very smart officer. Bertalda

dismissed her partner, and soon overtook Giraldi, who had passed into

one of the less-crowded side-rooms.

"Well!" he asked, sitting down, and inviting Bertalda by a gesture to

take a place by him, "did you get the money, child!"

"Yes, and I am extremely obliged to you. I was really in great need of

it. My poor brother----"

"I do not want to know what you did with the money. So long as you

oblige me, that is sufficient. The important point is, are they happy

at last?"

The girl coloured. "I really did my best," she said hesitatingly.

"She never came?" asked Giraldi vehemently.

"Oh yes! I had told her so much about her brother's ball, and----"

"Your dress--and so forth."

"Yes, that also. But it was not needed. I saw in her eyes that she

could not hold out any longer, and was delighted that I had given her

such a suitable opportunity. She came, too, half an hour before the

time, and found everything very charming, just as it was the first time

she was there, in November, and helped me to dress, and--well, one

knows what it is when a girl, who is really in love, is waiting for her

lover. A ring was heard. 'Who can that be?' said I. 'Perhaps it is Herr

von Werben,' said Johanna, who naturally knows all about it. 'What

brings him here to-day? Perhaps a bouquet; he is always so attentive,'

said Johanna. She turned white and red in one moment, and trembled from

head to foot, then fell upon my neck and sobbed, 'No, no, I have sworn

it;' and before I could turn round myself, she was out of the room,

without hat or cloak, down the stairs, and into the carriage, which was

waiting at the door--br-r-r!--and she was gone. Next time she will not

run away, I am certain of that."

"Next time," cried Giraldi, with scarcely restrained fury, "as if I

could wait a hundred years. I had so set my hopes on it. Made so much

of it to him. How did he take it?"

"He was frantic. I had to spend half an hour in consoling him. There

never was anything like it. I really think he will do himself a

mischief, if he doesn't get the girl. It is no joke, I can tell you, to

deal with them both. If I were not so fond of Werben, and so sorry for

poor Ferdinanda, I would not do it for all the money in the world."

"Did not he want to come here with you?"

"He is lying full length on my sofa and would listen to nothing. But I

think he will come still. An hour or so of that sort of thing gets

tiresome, here it is delightful. There is the quadrille beginning, and

here comes my partner; may I----"

"Yes, go; and if you see him, tell him that I expect him to-morrow

morning between nine and ten. He will know why."

"I have been looking for you everywhere, Fräulein Bertalda."

The black-haired young dandy carried off his charming,

tastefully-dressed partner, who smilingly took his arm, blowing a kiss

to Giraldi over her shoulder as she went.

Giraldi remained seated. While the stream of gaiety rolled

uninterruptedly around him, he could snatch a few minutes to think over

his position. It was by no means so prosperous as it had been a few

days ago. Since midday he had had to give up all hope of the second

instalment upon which he had counted at least in part. He had moreover

reckoned with absolute certainty, that to-day the net which he had

woven with such untiring perseverance would entangle Ottomar and

Ferdinanda. He would have made better use of the interesting facts than

Antonio had done about the rendezvous in the park. Ottomar's and

Carla's engagement had been the consequence of that--this would have

been the cause of the breaking off of that same engagement. Who could

now blame Ottomar if, irritated by the girl's absurd prudery, frantic

and despairing, he returned to Carla--to Carla, who loved him as much

as she was capable of loving any one, and, frivolous as she was, would,

for the mere sake of change, turn back from the new love to the old?

And had not his conversation with Herr von Wallbach just now shown him

that there were at any rate waverings in that quarter as to whether

matters should be allowed to come to extremities? Herr von Wallbach had

from the first declared that he did unfortunately share Giraldi's

"suspicion" that there had been some ugly circumstances connected with

Ottomar's continual drawing of bills of exchange, but that he would

never directly interfere upon that point himself. If this suspicion

should be justified--possibly at the next final settlement of the

trustee business--he should of course be obliged to take notice of it;

all the more in proportion to the extent to which the report might

already have spread, but still he should only do so to express his

sorrow and his conviction that such ugly rumours must disappear as

absolutely as they had arisen mysteriously. On the other hand, if any

positive proof appeared of the relations that Giraldi maintained still

existed between Ottomar and Ferdinanda, he--Wallbach--was quite

determined to make the proper use of it on his sister's account, to

whom such a rivalry must, in the long run, be disagreeable. But this

positive proof was still not procurable. There remained the affair of

the bills of exchange! And if Ottomar came to grief to-morrow? and his

proud father took the burden upon himself to avert the fearful disgrace

which would recoil upon the whole family? He indeed knew the truth; but

could he in that case speak? Would he not have to look on silently,

while the father and son settled the matter amicably between them?

Twenty thousand thalers indeed would not be so easily procured; but in

such a case impossibilities might be overcome, and the General would be

sure to have good and powerful friends. At the worst, if Baroness

Kniebreche and the others who had been let into the secret should have

too completely broken the sacred seal of confidence, there might be two

or three duels, which would just suit Ottomar, who had laughingly

asserted the other day that he should soon have made up his dozen!

A duel between him and Herr von Wallbach indeed! That would be

decisive.

Only Herr von Wallbach, whose nerves were always a little unsteady, was

thinking of anything but a duel. How to provoke Ottomar against him?

There would be difficulty about that. It would be necessary to speak

more plainly, to mix himself up more directly in the business than

before, and it had been his well-weighed decision not to let the mask

fall, until----

The Italian's face grew still darker as he sat there brooding and

meditating, his head lightly resting on his gloved right hand, his

crush-hat on his knees, while from time to time joyous couples hastened

past him to the ball-room, where they were still being summoned to the

quadrille, which was more difficult to arrange now on account of the

number of dancers.

If Valerie to-morrow, as he still hoped, agreed to everything, as she

had always hitherto done, the mine could then, before it was fired, be

so deeply laid that not one stone upon another should remain of the

edifice of the Werbens' prosperity; the very bones even of the hated

race should be scattered here and there through the air.

But if she opposed him? If, after seven and twenty years of dumb

submission, she should rebel? and not now, and for once only, but for

ever, should refuse him obedience? If she should appear as the mistress

and superior? Well, she would do so at her peril! He was prepared for

it too. The time for temporising, waiting, diplomatising, would be over

at once; there would only be a very plain, very clearly-expressed

question: Yes, or no? But she would never have the courage. And she was

welcome to hate him, if only she feared and obeyed him.

A slight noise near him made him look up, and he started as he met the

fiery black eyes of his young countryman.

"Eccolo!" cried Giraldi, stretching out his hand with his most

bewitching smile; "how did you get here, my boy!"

"There was a lack of dancing-men," answered Antonio, pressing the

offered hand to his heart; "the maestro was desired to bring a few

young artists with him, and was good enough to think of me."

"And why are you not dancing?"

"I have not the happiness of being acquainted with so many beautiful

young ladies as Eccellenza."

Giraldi smiled, whilst he turned over in his own mind whether Antonio

could have recognised in Bertalda the veiled lady who came to see

Ferdinanda. It was extremely improbable, but he must give some

explanation of his intimate conversation with the pretty girl.

"Do you envy me my happiness, Antonio?" he asked.

"I do not grudge Eccellenza his happiness. Who can deserve it better?"

answered Antonio, with fawning humility.

"And since you are modest, you will be happier than all the gold in the

world can make me. You are young and handsome, and--you love; and that

your love may be crowned with success, you have but to leave it to me

and Brother Ambrosio. We are both busy on your behalf. Have a little

patience only, and your probation will be ended, and you will have

everything your heart can wish for--yes, more than you have dreamed of

in your wildest dreams; but, above all, revenge--the most brilliant,

triumphant, heart-stirring revenge--upon your enemy! I swear it to you

by the Sacred Heart and the Holy Virgin!" The two Italians crossed

themselves. "And now, my boy, I will talk to you in a few days. For

to-day forget the cares of love, and pluck the rose of pleasure,

without wounding yourself with the thorns."

He pointed towards the ball-room, again pressed Antonio's hand, and

went.

The young man looked after him with a gloomy brow, as he slowly walked

away. He had never for a moment doubted that the charming young girl

whom he had seen talking so earnestly and familiarly to the signor, was

the same whom he had met that evening in the dusk--that is to say, the

same who had at one time repeatedly visited Ferdinanda; he knew her

height and figure so well. She might be his mistress--well, but then

what had she to do with Ferdinanda? Why had he not told him the real

state of the case? Why did he not tell him the lady's name today? Why

had he passed as quickly as possible to another subject--or rather had

only repeated the same fine speeches with which he had so often

flattered his confiding companion, although to this day not one of his

promises had come true? And were these to suffice him? Was he to

prolong his miserable life for this--he whom the clever signor had long

ceased to trust? The signor had better beware of a person named Antonio

Michele, who, when the signor had sworn by the Sacred Heart and the

Holy Virgin, had also taken an oath which stood in the closest

connection with that of the signor. There was the signor's lady. He

would not approach her directly--Antonio Michele was not such a

fool--but he would try and find out her name, which could not be very

difficult; and, above all, he would not lose sight of her.

Meanwhile Giraldi had wandered farther through the over-crowded rooms,

looking round him from time to time to see if he could discover

Ottomar, uncertain whether he wished to do so, or whether he should

wait for him, whether it would not be better to go away now and leave

things to take their course. The train for Sundin started at one

o'clock. It was now twelve; he had still half an hour. Half an hour!

Half a minute would have been enough generally for him to decide the

most weighty matters. But a man grew stupid from dealing with fools.

And now that boy also must get in his way!

The sudden and quite unexpected meeting with Antonio had troubled

Giraldi greatly. He had not thought about the young man for a long

time; he had almost forgotten him, as he did all those whom he did not

require immediately, or might not require again, for the furtherance of

his plans. He required Antonio no longer. For the net which he was

weaving for Ottomar and Ferdinanda, Bertalda was a much more

accommodating and convenient tool. About Reinhold and Elsa he had long

known all that he wished to know; and over the ardour with which at

first he had followed up the idea of making out the handsome young man

to be the son who should restore the already shaken relations between

him and Valerie, he had himself smiled since. If Brother Ambrosio,

indeed, had entered willingly into the affair--if by his hints to

Valerie he had awakened her longing, if not hope, for the lost son! But

the experiment had entirely failed; it had even rather had the contrary

result, and had shown him more clearly than ever that her heart was

more and more, perhaps was entirely, turned against him. And even if,

perhaps under other circumstances, he returned to his plan, there was

no use thinking any more of Antonio, against whom Valerie's suspicions

had once been roused. She would not now believe in the strongest proof,

to say nothing of a more or less well-invented fiction. And it was for

this, for this hollow mockery, that he had inspired that passionate

spirit with brilliant hopes and ambitious dreams, which must soon prove

themselves an empty nothing, in which the young man himself perhaps no

longer believed. There was sometimes a wild glare in the black eyes

that had suggested to him that the young man would sooner or later go

mad--perhaps was already so; and at the moment in which he swore to him

that he should be revenged upon his mortal enemy, a smile had passed

like a flash across his usually firm-set lips, which only admitted of

one interpretation. If he ever learnt that the man who had promised to

help him to gain the woman he loved had driven her into the arms of his

rival, would it not be well while it was yet time to give the murderous

weapon another direction--the right direction--to the heart of their

mutual enemy? To say to Antonio, "I must confess to you, my son, that

what you have above all things feared is true--the woman you love is

now in his arms. I could not prevent it. Kill me! Or, if you would

avenge yourself and me, keep your dagger ready--I know you always carry

it with you. In a few minutes he will be here, still intoxicated with

his happiness. Strike him! strike him down!"

Giraldi had stood leaning against the door-post, lost in his

bloodthirsty fancies as in a dream, looking with fixed eyes upon the

throng, without seeing anything. Suddenly he started. There in front of

him, only separated by the width of the room, was Ottomar. He was

talking to one or two other officers, and still had his back to him. He

could still get away through the door against which he was leaning into

the next room, and out of the house. That would be best. After all his

arrangements were made, the manager might give up the stage to his

puppets. What need was there of a dagger in this domestic drama? A few

dishonoured bills, a good deal of gossip, truth cunningly mixed with

falsehood and cleverly insinuated in society, and the wished-for result

could not be long in coming, even if one or other of the wires failed

in its effect. "To be too busy is some danger," as Hamlet says over the

body of Polonius.

And Giraldi slipped back into the room from which he had come, and,

passing through some side-rooms and down the brilliantly-lighted marble

staircase, gained the vestibule and cloak-room.

Some guests were still arriving--a few ladies who to judge from their

remarks, had been kept late in the ballet, and an elderly gentleman,

who took off his fur coat whilst the servant was helping Giraldi on

with his. The Italian hastily turned up his collar, but the other had

already recognised him, and stopped him as he was going.

"What, Signor Giraldi! Are you going already?"

"I am tired to death, Councillor, and the heat and noise upstairs are

amazing."

"I have already been three times to-day to your house in vain. I must

talk to you at least for a moment. What do you think of it, my dear

friend--what do you think of it?"

"Of what?"

The Councillor almost let his crush-hat fall. "Of what? Good heavens!

Is it possible to talk about anything to-day except this abominable

speech?"

"It appears not," said Giraldi. "Every other man and every fourth lady

is talking about it upstairs. Fortunately it does not concern me."

"Not directly," said the Councillor eagerly, "but indirectly. How

clever you have been again. The only man who would not hear of a

postponement of the date of payment of the second half of the

purchase-money. You were only too right. The Count is ruined. He will

never pay the second half."

"One must reconcile oneself to the inevitable."

"Very philosophical! But indeed with your genius for finance, you will

soon make up for it. I only heard to-day that you--I presume on the

part of the Baroness, but it is the same thing--had lent the Count the

half million with which he----"

Giraldi's brows met together like a thundercloud.

"Had the Count been talking--against his word of honour?"

"The Count! the Count!" cried the Councillor. "As if he troubled

himself about anything. He throws his shares into the market,

depreciates their value, and in short amuses himself. I regret, by

every hair on my head, that we ever had anything to do with a fine

gentleman! Lübbener----"

"Ah!" said Giraldi.

"Of course, Lübbener," continued the Councillor, "he no doubt only

acted in the interests of the railway, when he paid you this afternoon

the half million of the mortgage, after you had declared your fixed

resolution in any other case to move for an immediate public sale. I

cannot blame you either for wishing to get back at once money which

seemed in such danger; but it is hard when friends and foes alike work

for our ruin----"

"I do not consider Lübbener's finances by any means exhausted."

"Because--pardon me, my dear sir,--this supposition suits you; I can

assure you I was with him a quarter of an hour after you had finished

your business with him. He was furious. He said it had done for him,

and for our whole enterprise. Lasker's speech this morning--shares went

down twenty per cent.; half a million to pay this afternoon, for which

he was not in the least prepared--it was the beginning of the end----"

"Just what Herr von Wallbach said," said Giraldi. "But pardon me,

Councillor, it is rather warm here----"

"You will not come up again!"

"On no account."

"Perhaps you are right," said the Councillor. "I would go with you if

it were not for Lübbener, who is sure to be up there----"

"I did not see him."

"You must have overlooked our little friend. I wanted to tell him

something that I have just heard from the Minister who sent for me, and

has only just set me free, and which I hope may be useful to him in

tomorrow's battle."

"Then I will take leave of you. I am really tired to death."

The Councillor had not yet let go the button of Giraldi's coat. Through

the comparative silence of these downstairs rooms sounded from above

the wild strains of a furious waltz, and the dumb rush and sweep of the

dancers, whose whirling steps made the magnificent building tremble as

if with ague.

"They are dancing over a volcano," said the Councillor in a low voice.

"Believe me, he cannot hold out; it is impossible. We have been obliged

to pay him with shares, of course, like all the world. How he is to

meet his engagements now that our shares have fallen to twenty--heaven

only knows. I calculate that the man will be ruined in three weeks at

the latest, and we with him."

"I regret it extremely, but if the world were coming to an end in half

an hour, I should go to bed now."

The Councillor let go the button almost terrified. Such a wicked look

had shot out of Giraldi's great black eyes, although he had spoken with

the tired smile of a completely worn-out man.

"One would think he might play an active part in the downfall of the

world," murmured the Councillor, as he brushed up his short, dry hair

before the big looking-glass. "Strange what odd ideas come into my head

when I am with that man! Such calmness at such a moment! He does

business to the extent of half a million, of which no human soul is

aware, loses another half million, and--goes to bed! Mysterious man!"

The Councillor put his brush in his pocket, pulled out once more his

white tie, seized his crush-hat, and was on the point of leaving the

cloak-room, when another guest stepped hastily in, and throwing his fur

coat on the table, called to the servant, in a voice apparently

trembling with haste, "Be good enough to keep them separate, I shall

only be here a short time. Ah, Councillor!"

"Good gracious, Lübbener, what is the matter with you?"

Lübbener signed to him to be silent, and laid his finger on his lips at

the same time, then drew the horrified Councillor into the farthest

corner of the cloak-room, and said, as he stood on the tips of his

toes, and stretched his short neck as far as possible out of his white

tie, "Is he still upstairs?"

"Giraldi?" asked the Councillor, whose mind was still full of the

Italian's image. "You must have met him at the door."

"He! Philip--Schmidt?"

Utterly absurd as the question seemed, the Councillor could not smile;

his friend's face, always grey, was now ashy-white; the little black

eyes, which generally twinkled so merrily, were now fixed; each one of

the short hairs, so thickly covering the low forehead, seemed to stand

up of itself.

"Do not stare at me so," exclaimed Lübbener. "I am quite in my right

senses; I only hope that other people see as clearly into their affairs

as I do with mine. I was with Haselow just before closing-time, to see

if he could not help me with a hundred thousand or so to-morrow, as I

had had a somewhat heavy payment to make, for which I was not prepared.

'It is just the same with me,' said Haselow. 'Signor Giraldi took away

the last fifty thousand of the Warnow money an hour ago--the whole half

million in three days.'"

"Extraordinary! most extraordinary!" said the Councillor; "as the agent

of the Baroness, to whom the half belongs, we certainly allowed him to

invest the whole, but still--"

"Beware! beware!" gasped the other. "There is something wrong--very

wrong. Yesterday Golm throws half a million into the market; I keep up

the price notwithstanding to thirty; this morning that abominable

speech of Lasker's--down they go to twenty; this afternoon I have to

pay Giraldi every farthing of the Golm mortgage. I have struggled, I am

struggling still desperately, but there are limits to everything."

"It is very hard," said the Councillor, sighing. "Our splendid,

splendid enterprise! The Minister, too, was quite in despair to-day;

but--shall we not go upstairs? We can go on with our conversation

there. I have several things of importance to communicate to you."

"Hush!" said Lübbener.

He stood listening intently, then walked quickly to the big window from

which he could see out of the cloak-room into the vestibule, shook his

head and came back to the Councillor, muttering unintelligibly between

his pale lips.

"What is the matter now?" said the Councillor anxiously.

The banker's little black eyes glanced towards the servants in the

cloak-room. They could hear nothing, and were moreover occupied in

arranging their numbers; then he made the Councillor a sign to stoop

his tall figure to him.

"I ought to have consulted you properly, but the danger that he"--the

banker pointed with his finger in the direction from which the noise of

the ball came--"was too great. Our four millions preference shares

which would have to be issued now--"

"Good heavens!" said the Councillor.

"It was a mere vague suspicion, but it left me no peace. He and I, you

know, have the keys, and when after the office was shut, I told the

clerk I had some business still to do--true enough"--the Councillor had

bent his head so low that the banker was whispering into his ear. Then

they looked fixedly into each other's eyes. The Councillor's long face

had turned as grey as the other's.

"But this is a matter for the police," he said.

An evil smile crossed the banker's compressed lips.

"It has cost me a great deal of trouble to convince them of it."

"So then----"

The banker nodded.

"And when?"

"I expect them every minute. They wanted me to show myself here,

because my remaining away altogether--"

"Quite right! Quite true!" said the Councillor. "It is very, very

painful--still--I will certainly--under these circumstances----"

And he made a step towards the cloakroom table.

"Councillor, you will not," cried Lübbener, holding fast by his

coat-tail.

At this moment a tremendous flourish of trumpets sounded in the

vestibule. The servants rushed from behind their table to the window.

The pretty girls who had been waiting upon the ladies ran past them;

"They are coming, they are coming."

The two gentlemen had also gone to the window, as the flourish sounded

a second time, from long trumpets, which eight men dressed as heralds

were blowing on the broad landing of the staircase. They turned their

instruments upwards to right and left, as if to summon the assembly

from above. And in fact they had scarcely uttered their call for the

third time, before the company, who had been prepared beforehand, began

to appear.

A splendid sight, whose magnificence even the Councillor, in spite of

his thoughts being full of anxiety and care, could not but allow,

whilst the servants broke out into loud cries of admiration; only Herr

Lübbener's grey countenance kept the look of a man who is too much

behind the scenes to take much pleasure in the play himself.

The guests came down the marble stairs from both sides, the width being

more than sufficient for two couples at once. The brilliant streams met

on the landing, but only to separate again, and swarm down the lower

stairs to the vestibule, which already began to fill, whilst the

staircase and surrounding passages were still swarming with the gay

crowd, which while waiting for the stairs to be free for them, could

meanwhile enjoy the brilliant spectacle from above all the longer.

Preceded by the trumpeting heralds they paraded the vestibule, which

was decorated by Justus's four statues, and brightly lighted by an

immense chandelier and numerous candelabra, while it was divided

from the outer hall by splendid columns, till suddenly the great

folding-doors were flung open, and, as the trumpets ceased, soft music

sounding from within invited to the pleasures of the table.

"Did you see him?" asked Lübbener, with a grim smile.

"How could I avoid it?" answered the Councillor, sighing; "with my old

friend Baroness Kniebreche on his arm. Wonderful! The man has nerves of

steel."

"I think you had better come in with me, Councillor," said Lübbener;

"if only for the reason that I suspect you could not get out of the

house now."

"Do you think so?" said the Councillor, sighing; "then there is really

nothing else to be done."

And he followed his resolute companion, with anything but a festive

countenance, into the vestibule, where they mingled with the last

comers, who, now that the ranks had been broken, were pressing most

impatiently into the supper-room.

CHAPTER VI.

Any anxiety about finding places proved quite unfounded. There would

have been room for the whole party in the gorgeous dining-room, if

every seat had been occupied at the little tables laid for eight or ten

people each. But as it had been foreseen that this would not be the

case, tables were also laid in the great conservatory, which stood at

right angles with the dining-room and connected this wing of the house

with the other. The last comers had the privilege of supping under palm

trees, as Justus laughingly remarked to Ottomar, both being amongst the

latest arrivals.

"Stay with us," said Ottomar, pointing to his table, at which three or

four officers and some ladies belonging to the theatre, amongst whom

was Bertalda, were trying to arrange themselves. "I think there is room

enough, if not we will make room."

"I am sorry," answered Justus; "but I am already engaged to a few

friends there in the corner, and if our garden is not quite so

brilliant as yours--yet you see we also have roses blooming."

"And magnificent ones. Who is the lady in silver grey? What a splendid

figure!"

Justus laughed. "You must not betray me. Perfect carnival freedom

reigns here. She is a cousin of my colleague Bunzel, alias--his model,

alias----"

"Werben! Werben!" resounded from the officers' table.

"Justus! Justus!" from that of the artists'.

"Hope you will enjoy yourself," cried Ottomar.

"Same to you," said Justus; and to himself he added, "poor boy!"

He knew the sad story, and had besides heard lately from Reinhold, with

whom he kept up a constant correspondence, new and worse things of

Carla, which Meta, who had arrived quite unexpectedly this morning,

fully confirmed.

"You will see," said Meta, "it will turn out badly. Dear Elsa suspects

nothing; but I have a pair of sharp eyes, you know, and I am sure that

the Count and Carla have got some understanding between them. If only

Ottomar would let her go! but he is the sort of man who, if any one

tries to take from him what he ought to be thankful to let go, says,

'No, not now.' He is not so sensible as we are, you know. And now make

haste and be off to your great party!"

How laughing and beaming were his Meta's eyes, who by her great good

sense had overcome all obstacles--"To-morrow we will order the

furniture to suit your artistic tastes, you know!"--and how darkly and

restlessly gleamed the eyes in which he had just looked! "The handsome

face sunken and wasted as if in the last ten weeks he had aged twice as

many years," thought Justus, "and in spite of his gay words, how bitter

a look there had been upon his lips! Poor boy!"

"What are you making such a wry face for?" cried Kille, the architect,

as the new comer approached the table.

"No mooning allowed here!" cried Bencke, the historical painter.

"He is thinking of the left hip of his 'Industry,' which is so much

awry that it is almost dislocated!" cried friend Bunzel.

"Or of Lasker's speech, which has been cutting everybody up!" cried the

architect.

"I am thinking just now of what you are always thinking of, nothing at

all!" said Justus, taking a place next to Bunzel's "cousin," and

passing his hand over his bald forehead to brush away the unpleasant

impression.

It would have been hard indeed for even a less cheerful disposition to

have given way to gloomy thoughts at this table and in such company.

They talked and laughed and joked in the most extravagant way. They had

all worked at the great building, especially the architect who had

drawn the plan and directed the execution, and now were showing up each

other's mistakes in good-humoured banter. And between whiles came

serious and weighty talk upon art and artists, or upon Lasker's speech,

which Justus, who in the sweat of his brow had sat out the whole

debate--"for reasons, you know, Meta"--thought splendid beyond all

belief, while the architect declared that the man might certainly be

right on the whole--there were stranger stories even connected with

some of the railroads--but of actual building he knew no more than a

new-born babe; till one or the other who thought the conversation was

getting too serious, threw in some wild joke, and the laughter that had

been for a short time checked resounded again louder and more heartily

than ever. And at the other tables, if there was perhaps less mirth,

there was no less noise. The champagne flowed in streams. The

innumerable servants had enough to do to renew the empty bottles in the

silver wine-coolers; and great irritation seemed to be felt at the

smallest neglect of the servants in this, matter. Everybody gave

orders; everybody wanted the best wine, the second best was good for

nothing, People passed the wine or the dishes from table to table,

"just as if it had been a public dinner," said Baroness Kniebreche,

surveying the crowd through her eye-glass; "quite like an hotel. I

never saw such a thing in a private house before. It is extremely

amusing. Do you know, Wallbach, that when you passed behind my chair

just now I was within an ace of addressing you as the head waiter."

"Ha! Very funny!" answered Wallbach absently. "You cannot expect to

find the good company and manners to which we are accustomed in such a

house as this. It is and will always remain the house of a parvenu. But

I was going to ask you, my dear Baroness, if you had kept your counsel

as to the last piece of information I gave you, as I asked you to do?"

"The last piece of information?" cried the Baroness; "but, my dear

child, you have told me so much, that I positively have forgotten which

is the first and which is the last. Why do you want to know?"

"Ottomar avoids me in a way which, notwithstanding that our relations

have been disturbed lately, is most marked. Just now he looked straight

over my head."

"Then look over his head, my dear child. I really can give you no other

advice. Besides, what is it you want? You can't wash fur without

wetting it. That's nonsense. If you want to have a row, have it--if

not, let it alone; but don't bother me any more about the matter. And

now give me some of that lobster salad--there, at your elbow--it is

delicious."

"The old woman is drunk," muttered Wallbach, as he returned to his

place at the next table.

Philip had excused himself for a quarter of an hour from the old lady

to go round the room, and was now going from table to table with his

glass, which had to be constantly replenished, in his hand, received

here with praises of the splendid feast, there with cordial shouts,

"Splendid, my dear fellow!" "Well done, my boy!" and at several points

with hurrahs and drinking of healths; while at others people seemed to

require a reminder that the gentleman in the white tie and waistcoat,

with the broad forehead, and the courteous smile on his red,

clean-shaven face, who stood there glass in hand before them, was the

master of the house.

Philip had gone the round of the room, and must now pay a visit to the

conservatory which opened out of the room. He came here at once upon a

large table surrounded by young men, who received him with such

enthusiasm that he seemed quite to overlook a smaller table close by,

and with a wave of his hand and a jesting word to the young men was

passing on farther, when a hoarse well-known voice said: "Now then,

Schmidt, are not we to have the honour?" Philip's face quivered, but it

was beaming as if in joyful surprise as he turned round and threw up

his arms, crying, "At last! Why, Lübbener, Councillor! Where the deuce

have you been hiding? I really thought I was to be deprived of this

pleasure. And you are quite alone, too! Like the lions, you keep

apart!"

"We were late comers," said the Councillor, touching Philip's extended

glass with his; "it was a mere matter of chance!"

"As long as you are amusing yourselves," said Philip.

"Certainly," answered Lübbener. "We can see here into both rooms. It is

the best place of all."

"Then it belongs to you by right," cried Philip. "The best place in the

room. The best in the house! Where would room and house be without you,

my good Hugo? Dear old man!"

And, as if overcome with emotion, he took the little man in his arms,

and held him, not daring to resist, pressed to his breast, when a loud

voice a few steps from them cried, "Gentlemen!"

"Oh, horror!" exclaimed Philip, letting Lübbener out of his embrace.

"Ladies and gentlemen--"

The speaker was a bank clerk from the young men's table, famed among

his companions for his extraordinary talent for after-dinner speeches.

He had so placed himself, glass in hand, between the dining-room and

the conservatory that he might have been heard in both rooms, if, in

the noise which increased every moment, one man's voice had not been as

much lost as a drop in the ocean.

"Stand on a chair, Norberg!"

"Hear, hear!"

"Stand on two chairs, Norberg; one is of no use."

"Ladies and gentlemen--"

"Louder, louder! Silence! Hear, hear!"

Nobody could hear anything, but here and there people could see some

one standing on a chair gesticulating, and apparently making an attempt

to speak; they drew the attention of their neighbours, and though

silence was not attained, Herr Norberg, with renewed hopes, exerted the

full force of his lungs, so far overpowering the noise as to make

himself audible, at least to the circle which had gathered round him,

and which was increasing every moment.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Our German proverb says that every man forges

his own fortune--"

"Bravo! hear, hear!"

"But, unfortunately, every one does not understand smith's work, and

the work fails in consequence. For the smith's work we need a

Schmidt--"[1]

"Very good! Hear! Silence there!"

"And if a smith forges his fortune, we may be assured that it is a work

which he need not be ashamed of before masters or apprentices."

"Capital! Bravo! Bravissimo!"

"And, ladies and gentlemen, the masters, and more particularly we young

apprentices who have still much to learn, and who wish to learn, will

watch his fingers in order to find out how and with what tools he

works; for the tools are the first consideration!"

"Bravo! Bravo!"

There was almost perfect silence. Herr Norberg, now sure of his effect,

continued in a pathetic tone of voice:

"But what are his tools? First, of course, the anvil--the immovable

anvil, formed of the cast steel of honesty--"

"Hear! hear!"

"Of honesty, which can bear every blow and shock, because it rests on

its own merits, and tested as it is by the enduring and flattering

confidence of the initiated, and, if I may so express myself, polished

by the good report of all honest people--"

"Bravo! bravo!"

"May laugh to scorn the rust of slanderous tongues which are raised

against it and its like, if such there be, even should it proceed from

the tribune of a certain great House--"

The last words were scarcely to be heard in the indescribable uproar

which arose at the first allusion to the great event of the day, with

which the minds of all were still filled, or at least occupied. Whether

the opprobrious word was approved or condemned by the majority of the

company, it was impossible to decide. Encouraging, even enthusiastic

acclamations, in which Norberg's particular friends were the loudest,

words of dissatisfaction, of disapproval, even of the greatest

indignation, all this buzzed, resounded, and reverberated, till almost

suddenly the storm abated, as if all, friends and foes, were curious to

hear what the man would utter further, as they all took it for granted

that he would not rest satisfied with this one sally.

But the prudent Norberg was careful not to stake the issue of his

well-considered speech by another impromptu. He spoke again in the

flowery language in which he had begun, of the "Heavy hammer of

Strength," which the master he honoured could wield better than any

other; of the indefatigable "Pincers of Energy," with which he held

fast to plans that he had once made; even of the "Bellows of strong

breathing Courage," which ever renewed in his own breast and in the

hearts of his fellow-workmen the flame of inspiration which belongs to

all creative power. Provided with these tools, and gifted with these

qualities, it had been possible for the master to attain to this

imposing result; to carry through his vast plans in spite of the

indifference of the public, in spite of the ignorant opposition of the

authorities; to make new roads for trade, convenient ways for commerce,

towards the completion of which he was now working, it might reasonably

be hoped not in vain, in spite of all and everything. Lastly, as the

keystone of the edifice of his fortune, or to keep to his simile, "as

the last link in the long chain of famous works which he has forged, to

erect this house, which he has made so great, so splendid, not for

himself, for he is the most retiring of men, but for his friends, whom

he has assembled around him to-day in hundreds, as representatives of

the remaining thousands, and who may now prove their representative

powers by three times three, as from the thousands, for the brave,

disinterested Schmidt, the smith of his own fortune."

The company acceded to the invitation, some from conviction, the

majority excited by wine, not a few out of mere politeness, with loud

hurrahs, accompanied by a noisy flourish from the band, while the

speaker descended from his chair and received, with proud modesty, the

thanks of his host and the congratulations of the guests. He had

surpassed himself to-day; he had been magnificent, it was only a pity

and a shame that he had not given it stronger to Lasker, who really had

deserved more.

"I do not think he will be too pleased as it is," answered Herr Norberg

complacently; "but now, Schmidt, old boy, up with you! You can't help

yourself!"

"No, you can't help yourself!" chimed in the guests; "up with you! fire

away!"

"But, gentlemen," exclaimed Philip, "after such a speech! Let me have a

few minutes to think at least."

"It won't do you any good!" said Herr Norberg encouragingly and

patronisingly, "I know all about it! Improvise as I did, it always

answers best."

"If you think----"

"Silence! listen! don't you see?"

The tall, broad-shouldered man who now stood on the chair was visible

enough; and as his appearance in that place was already expected, there

ensued at any rate sufficient quiet to enable him to begin with a

certain amount of dignity.

He would be brief, as fortunately he was in a position to be. The

gratitude he felt for the distinguished honour which had just been

shown him, for the kindness, the friendliness, yes, he ventured to say

the word--the affection which was showered upon him--such gratitude,

heartfelt as it was, could be expressed in a few words which, however,

came from the heart. Besides, it was not expected from the man of

deeds, in which capacity he had just been honoured, that he should be

an orator like his predecessor, whose speech it was easier to criticise

than to surpass; he had detected one defect. His strength, his courage,

his honesty had been praised; those were qualities which, the latter

especially, he expected from every man; and he therefore ventured to

accept a small portion of the exuberant praise lavished upon him.

"The whole of it!--without deduction--without discount--with interest!"

exclaimed the enthusiastic crowd.

"Well, well, gentlemen!" exclaimed Philip, "if you will have it so, the

full praise! But, gentlemen, what of the head, the mind and

understanding! Perhaps you will say they do not exist----"

"Oh, oh! I will take a hundred thousand shares in you!" shrieked the

enthusiastic auditors.

"No, no, gentlemen!" shouted Philip over the heads of the shouters;

"where nothing exists, the King himself must lose his rights. I am no

Prince and Imperial Chancellor, who has not only his heart, but his

head also in the right place."

Here Philip was compelled to pause, till the storm of applause which

his last words had called forth was somewhat abated.

"Yes, gentlemen, I acknowledge it; he is my ideal, but an unattainable

one! The qualities that a great man, world-renowned as he is, unites in

himself--the most opposite qualities, yet all equally necessary to

success--for these we small people must combine. And with me it is no

accidental chance, but a dispensation of Providence, and a sure

confirmation, that in this moment, without any previous agreement, as

you will believe me on my word, the two men who are my associates in

business and in every sense of the word, are standing near me; and in

this association if I am really the heart, they have unquestionably the

department of the head; here to my right, Councillor Schieler--to my

left, the banker, Hugo Lübbener."

Uproarious applause followed, which changed to shouts of laughter, in

which even the impartial spectators joined, when the next moment,

raised and held fast by the irresistible hands of the half-intoxicated

crowd, the two gentlemen named by Philip appeared in person on chairs

to his right and left. Philip, with quick presence of mind, seized the

hands of both, and cried:

"Here! I have you, I hold you, my two heads who are only one, and who

are all in all one with me; one heart and one soul! I was about to call

for a cheer for these two, without whom I were nothing; but as we three

are one, and cannot with the best wishes for health drink our own

healths, I ask you, we ask you for a cheer, a hearty cheer for those

whom we have to thank for the satisfaction of being here together this

evening, and I think I may say, of enjoying ourselves; the architect of

this house and the artists who have decorated it."

While the company willingly complied with his request, and the band

again accompanied them with a shrill flourish of trumpets; while Herr

Norberg embraced Philip and assured him that he himself could not have

done it better; while the two other gentlemen, who had sprung quickly

from their chairs, were overpowered with shaking of hands and

congratulations, great excitement reigned in the group of artists. Of

course somebody must answer, but who should it be? The historical

painter would just as soon have mounted the scaffold; one or two others

"could have done it, but it was not in their line;" the architect, as a

native of Berlin, freemason, and member of numberless societies, a born

and bred orator, did not see why he who had done the most should do

anything extra now.

"Justus must speak!" exclaimed Bunzel; "he can take the opportunity of

putting to rights that dislocated hip."

"As you will," said Justus; "there is something here that requires

setting to rights undoubtedly, of which your empty heads would never

think."

"Silence there! Hear! hear! Silence!" thundered the artists.

"Bravo! bravo! _da capo!_" shrieked the young men.

"I think once will be enough, gentlemen," said Justus, who was already

mounted on the chair.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I come before you as a boy before his

schoolmaster. For though it is only proper that we artists should

express our thanks for the kindness shown to us, I am neither the

eldest nor the youngest amongst us, neither the one who has the

greatest merit with regard to this beautiful house, nor perhaps the one

amongst us who has sinned most with regard to it; but as I am here, I

offer in all our names my most grateful thanks for your goodness, and

as I feel by no means steady on this rickety pedestal, and as I have

learnt from my predecessors----"

"Bravo! bravo!" exclaimed the artists.

"That if one wishes to leave this place one must first look out for a

successor, but feel that in this way the matter would never come to an

end, I have chosen for the purpose a person who is not in this company;

and I ask you to give a cheer for him, who has already spoken himself

to-day, and has spoken to my heart, and, I know, to the hearts of many

in this company; and to give a second cheer for him, because it would

ill become this company if a word were spoken against him here, as has

been done, without an answer being forthcoming from amongst us; and a

third cheer, and long life to him who requires three lives in order to

carry out the herculean labour he has undertaken!"

Justus drew up his slender figure, and his clear voice sounded like a

trumpet:

"Long live Edward Lasker!"

And his "Hip! hip! hurrah!" resounded in shouts from the artists,

whilst the astonished opponents remained silent, and all who had been

shocked at the previous offensive words, and they were many, cheered

with them, and the music sounded in the midst, so that the whole room

shook, and old Baroness Kniebreche shrieked out to Baroness Holzweg, "I

really believe I can hear again with both ears!"

The storm was still raging when Anton, the valet, came up to Philip,

who stood shrugging his shoulders and trying to smooth matters amidst a

group of gentlemen who were all talking to him at once, with violent

gesticulations, hoping and expecting that he would properly resent and

punish such a public insult. Anton must have had something very urgent

to say, as he pulled his master repeatedly by the sleeve, and dragged

him almost by force out of the group.

Philip's face had got very red, but at the first words which the

servant, as he unwillingly bent towards him, whispered in his ear, it

became white as ashes. He now himself hastily drew the man a few paces

farther on one side.

"Where is the gentleman?"

"He is close at hand, in the billiard-room," answered Anton; "here is

his card."

The servant was as pale as his master, and brought the words out with

difficulty from between his chattering teeth.

"Any one with him?"

"They are in the vestibule and out in the street and in the court--oh,

sir, sir!"

"Hush! Will you help me?"

"Willingly, sir."

Philip whispered a few words into the man's ear, who then went hastily

through the room into the vestibule, from which, unchecked, he

disappeared, through a door, into the cellar regions. Philip stood

there for a few minutes, his firm lips tightly compressed, and his

fixed eyes bent on the floor. He had not expected this; he had hoped to

have had at least another week's law. The devil must have prompted

Lübbener. However, the great haul must in the end have failed, and he

had got the ready money, at any rate, provided; but he must venture it!

If he could only get out of the house, they must be more than

cunning--he had had everything prepared for weeks in case of this

happening. As he again lifted his gloomy eyes, his glance encountered

Lübbener's, who, only a few paces off, apparently in eager conversation

with the Councillor and some other gentlemen, had closely observed the

short scene between the master and servant, and, as the former stepped

back to the group, now turned his back upon him.

"Excuse me for a few minutes, gentlemen," said Philip; "I have still

some arrangements to make for the cotillon, and then, if you please, we

will leave the table."

He said it in his usual loud and swaggering tone, whilst at the same

time he caught Lübbener by the wrist, as if in an overflow of hilarity,

and drew him out of the group.

"What do you want?" gasped Lübbener.

"To tell you," said Philip, grinding his teeth, "that you shall pay me

for this, sooner or later!"

He flung the little man from him so that he tumbled backwards into the

group, and making his way through the conservatory with a firm step,

passed into the billiard-room, to meet a gentleman who stood there

alone with folded arms, leaning on one of the tables, and apparently

studying the ornamentation of the door through which Philip entered.

"Inspector Müller?" said Philip, who still held the card in his hand.

"I have that honour," answered the inspector, unfolding his arms so

slowly that he could not well take Philip's outstretched hand.

"And what procures me this pleasure?" asked Philip.

"The pleasure is a very doubtful one, Herr Schmidt. I have a warrant

against you!"

The officer took a paper from his breast-pocket, and so held it that

Philip could easily have read it by the lamp over the billiard-table;

but Philip had taken up a ball, and was making a hazard.

"A warrant! How very strange! Look there! a double hazard too! Are you

a billiard player, Herr Müller?"

"Occasionally, when I have time, which I seldom have--for instance, not

at present. I must therefore beg of you to follow me without delay."

"And leave my guests? But, Herr Müller, just imagine--four hundred

people, and no host! It is absolutely impossible!"

"It must be possible."

"But it is not necessary. You are my guest. Toilette at this hour is of

no consequence; besides, you are got up regardless. Remain by my side,

of course--a cousin who has just arrived--what you will! Your men, in

plain clothes I take it for granted, can amuse themselves finely

meanwhile with my people. Afterwards we can drive together in my

carriage----"

"You are very kind, but a carriage is already provided, and now stands

in the courtyard amongst a number of equipages, so that we need not

again pass through the vestibule. You see, Herr Schmidt, I go to work

with the greatest consideration; but I must now really beg that you

will not put my patience to a longer test."

Philip rolled the ball which he held in his hand from him at random,

and turned round.

"Well, if nothing else will satisfy you; but I hope I may change my

dress?"

"I have no objection to that, only you must submit to my presence

meanwhile."

"No apologies, Herr Müller, between men! Will you be so good?"

And he led the way, the officer following on his steps. In the library,

which opened out of the billiard-room, an assistant officer was

waiting, who now joined them.

"You are very cautious, Herr Müller," said Philip over his shoulder,

"My duty, Herr Schmidt!"

He touched Philip's arm, and said in a low voice, "If you will give me

your word of honour to make no attempt at escape, which would moreover

be quite fruitless, I can"--and the inspector made a sign over his

shoulder--"spare you at least this escort."

"No attempt at escape!" said Philip laughing; "oh! Herr Müller, I can

think of nothing else. I would vanish through the floor or the walls if

I only could."

The officer could not help smiling.

"Go back into the vestibule again, Ortmann," he said.

"Thank you for your confidence," said Philip, as they went up a winding

staircase, guarded by a handsome richly-gilt railing, by means of which

the library was connected with the upper story of the right wing, which

was separated from the ball-room by the whole width of the courtyard,

that was partially glazed like the conservatory.

"The fact is, Herr Müller, that inconvenient as it certainly is to me,

I cannot take this episode really in earnest----"

Philip had opened a door in the corridor in which they now stood.

"This is a passage-room," he said in an explanatory tone; "I should

prefer to turn to the right, through that door into my living rooms,

which are to-day being used also as company rooms. But as there is no

help for it, we must go through the one on the left to my bedroom."

He pushed the door open. "Pray go first; for the time being, at least,

I am still the host here."

The officer did as he was asked, ready, if his prisoner should attempt

to shut the door upon him, which opened inwards, to stop it with his

outstretched foot. But Philip followed him close, shutting the door

behind him.

"My bedroom!" said Philip, waving his right hand, whilst the left still

played with the lock, to the magnificent apartment, which, like all

they had passed through, was brilliantly lighted with wax candles;

"furnished in French style, and as if it were for a young lady who had

just returned home from school! but these upholsterers are autocrats.

This way, please, Herr Müller--my dressing-room--the last in the

row--and dark--but that we can rectify."

Philip held up the branch candlestick, which he had taken from the

console under the looking-glass in the bedroom, and threw the light all

round as if to assure the Inspector that there was no second door in

the space left free by the carved oak wardrobes, and that the one they

had come in by was the only entrance and exit. He put the candlestick

down on a table, took off his coat, and opened one of the cupboards.

"I will wait in your bedroom while you are dressing, said the officer.

"Pray do," said Philip, as he took off his white waistcoat and undid

his tie; "I hope you will find the arm-chairs to your taste----"

The officer returned to the bedroom without quite shutting the door,

and took his place on one of the magnificent sofas.

"From Delorme in Paris," said Philip, opening and shutting the

cupboards in the dressing-room; "it is supposed to be something quite

out of the way, although I cannot see it. Only a few minutes, Herr

Müller; I am just as if I had come out of the river. My whole house is

ventilated after the newest principles, and yet this awful heat! _À

propos_, I suppose I may give notice downstairs that I have been taken

suddenly unwell, and so forth."

"I have no objection," said the officer. "I am only afraid that,

discreet as I have been, the rumour will have spread; it is generally

so at least."

"It can't be helped then," said Philip, who seemed busy with his boots;

"will the thing never come out? There, at last! What a pity that it is

midnight, and the magistrates cannot be got hold of, or I should

certainly be back again in half an hour. I have never asked what it is

about. I know without asking; it is some wretched trick of Lübbener's,

to drive me out of the board of directors. I knew that he had been for

some days in frightful difficulties, and was certain that our

preference shares were not safe from him. No respectable bank would

advance him a farthing upon the whole four million; but some swindling

firm--he knows plenty of them--might advance him six or eight hundred

thousand--a mere nothing in his position, but when there is nothing

better to be had the devil himself eats flies. So, thought I, they are

more secure in my hands than in the safe. In proof that I was right, he

has found me out. You must know from experience, my dear Herr Müller,

that no one thinks of looking for a man behind the bushes unless he has

been in hiding there once or twice himself. It was a bold thing to do,

I know, but mine is a daring nature. There! now another pair of boots,

and I am ready."

Herr Schmidt, who must have been going about in slippers for the last

five minutes, appeared to have gone again to one of the cupboards, in

which he was hunting about. "Varnished boots? Impossible! these are the

right ones--these," the officer heard him say, as if to himself. The

creaking of a chair--he was a heavy man--a smothered oath--the boots

apparently did not go on easily--then silence.

Absolute silence for a minute, during which Herr Müller got up from his

arm-chair and went to the window to look across the glass roof of the

courtyard, to the illuminated windows of the ball-room, behind which

one or two ladies and gentlemen could be seen. The supper had

apparently lasted too long for the lovers of dancing, and since the

master of the house had vanished, they wanted to set the ball going

again of their own will. And indeed the music began again now from

beyond, whilst beneath the glass roof sounded the stamping of horses,

and the talking and shouting of the coachmen.

"A terrible business for Herr Schmidt," thought the Inspector; "the

affair is certainly not literally as he represents it, but Lübbener is

perhaps the biggest swindler of the two. They generally get off free.

He might really be ready now."

Herr Müller stepped from the window back into the room. "Are you ready,

Herr Schmidt?"

No answer.

"Are you---- Good God! the man must have done himself an injury!"

The officer pushed open the half-closed door--the candelabra burnt on

the dressing-table--coats and linen were strewed about--the room was

empty.

"Don't play any foolish tricks, Herr Schmidt," said the officer,

looking towards the big cupboard, whose door stood partly open.

But he no longer believed in a joke, as after having hastily glanced

into the open cupboard, he threw the light of the candelabra right and

left over the hangings, which were leather coloured to represent wood.

No trace of a door! And yet there must be one! There, at last! This

scarcely perceptible crack, where the darker stripes of the hangings

met the lighter wainscoting--wonderfully done!--and here below, hardly

visible, the tiny lock. Herr Müller pushed and kicked against the door,

only to discover that it was made of iron and would defy his utmost

efforts. He rushed out of the dressing-room into the bedroom--the door

into the anteroom was locked! There, close to the handle, was the same

lock as that on the concealed door, no bigger than the key-hole in the

dial plate of a clock. He was a prisoner!

The infuriated officer threw open the window, and called as loudly as

he could to his men, of whom two should be in the courtyard. But on the

other side the fiddles squeaked and the violoncellos growled, and below

the horses stamped and the coachmen shouted and laughed. No one heard

the cries from above, until in his despair he took the first thing that

came to hand and flung it through the glass, so that the fragments fell

upon the heads of a pair of fiery horses, which, frightened out of

their wits, reared and backed, driving the carriage into another one

behind them, which rolling back again made the horses of a third

recoil. In the midst of the frightful confusion and the tremendous

noise that ensued, the shouts of the officer were overpowered, until at

last one of the policemen remarked them, but without being able to

understand a word his superior said. Nevertheless, he hurried out of

the court into the vaulted passage which, running on the right side of

the building and round behind the court, connected the latter with the

street, and was used for the exit of the carriages, those coming in

entering on the opposite side, to tell his comrades who were posted

there that something had happened, and that they must be on their

guard. He had done so in a few breathless words, and was in the act of

running back, when from one or other of the doors opening into the

passage, two servants rushed out, one an elderly man, who seemed to be

trembling from head to foot with excitement, and one younger and very

tall who nearly ran into his arms. The policeman connected the hurry of

these servants with what had just occurred, and he was confirmed in

this opinion by the fact of his remarking at the same moment, that a

narrow, steep stone staircase led up from the door which the servants

had in their haste left open.

"What has happened upstairs?" cried the policeman.

"Herr Schmidt has had a fit of apoplexy," answered the tall servant. "I

am going for the doctor, do not detain me. Here is the Inspector's

card."

"All right!" said the policeman, throwing a glance at the card. "Let

him pass. He is going for the doctor. How can I get upstairs?"

"Straight up these steps," was the breathless reply.

"Then be off with you!"

The man rushed breathlessly to the exit past the policeman, who

willingly made way for him, ran to the string of cabs which stood

before the house, only carriages being allowed inside the courtyard,

and sprang into the end one, calling to the driver to go as quickly as

possible; he should be well paid. It was a matter of life and death!

In the supper-room the confusion increased as the absence of the host

continued.

Amongst the few who still kept their place was Baroness Kniebreche,

although Herr von Wallbach urgently pressed her departure.

"Only a few minutes more," cried the Baroness, without taking her glass

from her eye; "it is so interesting. In spite of my eighty-two years, I

have never seen anything like it. Only just look, my dear Wallbach, at

that table where the little bald-headed man is sitting who a little

while ago proposed that man Lasker's health; tell me--I did not hear a

word of it for my part. The man with the long fair hair is positively

kissing his neighbour--an artist too of course--enviable people! Who is

the handsome young man with the black hair and fiery eyes; at the same

table? I have noticed him already this evening--a foreigner, we do not

grow such plants. He, moreover, never takes his eyes off Ottomar's

table. He seems to be struck by the pretty ballet-dancer. I cannot

understand how Ottomar can go on flirting with Ferdinanda, when he has

such a choice before him. But it is no use disputing about taste; it is

a wonderful thing. That faded Agnes Holzweg and Prince Wladimir. Well,

he cannot be very particular, and it seems to be going off too, as he

has not even been here for a few minutes. Take care of the old lady!

Pooh! She can hear me? I can hardly hear myself speak. That old woman

is a tremendous chatterer. She was talking just now for ever so long to

young Grieben of the Hussars, who I think is somehow related to her,

and has also paid attentions to Agues in his time, before the Prince

began to do so. There he is talking to Ottomar. If the old lady has

been chattering, Grieben will take the greatest satisfaction in boring

Ottomar with it, as he knows of his dislike to Agnes, whom Grieben, I

hear, in spite of all, still adores."

"But, my dear lady," cried the horrified Wallbach, "you have not told

that notorious gossip--"

"Look! look!" cried the Baroness, giving Wallbach a sharp blow with her

closed fan, "there, at the first--second--fourth table! The men are

coming to blows! it is really splendid! I never saw anything like it in

my life."

"It really is high time for us to go," said Herr von Wallbach; "it is

getting too bad. Allow me to send a servant for my carriage--"

"Well, if you really are determined," said the Baroness, "but I am

still amusing myself immensely."

Herr von Wallbach had stood up, but the servants who were hurrying

about with wine and ices seemed little inclined to do his errand, and

he was forced to look elsewhere through the room for some one more

accommodating.

Whilst he was still talking to the Baroness, Ottomar went up to Justus,

who was talking to his friend Bunzel as quietly as if the storm which

he had raised, and which increased in fury every minute, was not of the

slightest consequence to him.

"A word with you, Herr Anders."

"Ten, if you like," rejoined Justus, jumping up; "but for heaven's

sake, Herr Von Werben----"

"What?"

"Pardon me! you did not look very cheerful before, but now--has

anything unpleasant happened to you?"

"Indeed there has. Tell me, Herr Anders, I am in a great hurry, and

cannot stop to explain--I know that you are very intimate with Captain

Schmidt, and I have just heard that there exists, some understanding

between him and--my sister. Do you know anything of this?"

Justus did not know what this meant. Ottomar's eyes, blazing with fury

and an excitement which rose above the fumes of wine, boded no good;

but no evasion was possible.

"Yes, Herr Von Werben; and I am convinced that only the lack of any

friendly advance on your part has made my friend hold back, and caused

him to leave you in ignorance of his understanding with your sister,

whilst, so far as I know, your father has long been acquainted with

it."

"Very likely, very likely," said Ottomar; "my family and I have long

been--but no matter! And in any case--I deeply regret that I did not

cultivate Captain Schmidt's friendship--however, I admire and esteem

him highly, very highly--I should always have considered it an

honour--everything might have been so totally different----"

He passed his hand over his brow.

"Is there still no possibility?" asked Justus quickly.

A melancholy smile passed over the handsome face.

"How I wish there were," he said. "I thought myself--but it is too

late, too late! I have found that out--this evening--just now--a man in

my position cannot allow his name to be in every one's mouth; and that

fact is used with great skill--the greatest skill--confounded skill!"

His teeth were gnawing hard at his lip, his angry eyes looked beyond

Justus into the room as if seeking some one, and they kept their

direction as he asked, even more hastily and abruptly than before:

"Perhaps you are also acquainted with Car--with Fräulein von Wallbach's

relations with--with--I see by your eyes that you know what I mean. And

you--but the others, who are talking of it all round, and reckoning

that for well-known reasons I must keep quiet about it; but I'll be

hanged if I do!"

"Only a man cannot have everything at the same time," said Justus.

"But I will keep quiet before those chatterers until it suits one of

them to speak out. I will settle it, believe me, in five minutes!"

Ottomar suddenly rushed away from Justus, "Like a falcon after its

prey," thought the latter, "Oh, this fatal honour! What sacrifices has

Moloch already required! Poor boy! I like him in spite of all the harm

that he has already done and that he still seems intent upon doing.

Well, I cannot hinder him with the best will in the world. Good

gracious!--already half-past one!"

Justus had of his own accord promised Meta to leave the party at twelve

o'clock punctually. He looked round for Antonio, who was talking

eagerly, near the table at which Ottomar and the other officers had

supped, with the piquante young lady whom one of the officers--not

Ottomar--had conducted to supper, and who, now that Ottomar was also

gone, appeared to have been left behind by the whole party.

"He is always making up to somebody, is Antonio," said Justus, as he

watched the insinuating manners of his handsome assistant and the

smiles of the young lady. "Let him be; I shall not get him to come home

with me."

He looked from Antonio to the tall painter who was in hot argument with

a few men who belonged to the "young men's table." "He will soon finish

them off," thought Justus, just as two or three men left the group and

came with angry faces towards him.

"You took upon yourself to wish long life to Lasker!" said a swarthy

youth.

"And I hope that he will long gratify that wish," answered Justus, with

a courteous bow, as he continued on his way past his astonished

interlocutor.

Ottomar, meanwhile, had gone up to the Baroness, and, without taking

the chair next to her, although it, as well as half those at the table,

had long been unoccupied, said in a loud voice, as was necessary to the

deaf old lady in the noise which prevailed around:

"Pardon me, Baroness, but will you allow me to trouble you with a

question?"

The Baroness looked at him through her immense glasses. She knew at

once what Ottomar wanted to ask, and that Baroness Holzweg must have

repeated what she had told her, and she was determined not to allow

herself to be mixed up in the matter.

"Ask anything you like, my dear child," she said.

"Certain rumours which are circulating in this company, about myself on

the one hand, and Fräulein von Wallbach on the other, and which have

come to my ears from Herr von Grieben amongst others, are traced hack

to you, Baroness, as Grieben has them from his aunt, Frau von Holzweg,

and she asserts that she had them from you."

"That is a long preamble, my dear child," said the Baroness, to gain

time.

"My question will be so much the shorter. From whom did you hear this

story?"

"My dear child, all the world is talking about it!"

"I cannot be content with that answer, my dear lady; I must know the

actual person."

"Then find him for yourself!" said the Baroness in her rudest tone,

turning her back upon him.

Ottomar bit his lip, and went straight up to Herr von Wallbach, who,

having vainly sought for some willing messenger through the whole room,

now returned to the Baroness to tell her that he would go and look for

the carriage himself.

"Baroness Kniebreche has commissioned me to discover the actual person

who has set in motion certain rumours about myself and your sister. Am

I to find him in the person of that sister's brother?"

"Really, Werben," said Herr von Wallbach, who had turned very pale,

"this is not the place to talk about such things."

"That comes rather late, it seems to me, from you, who have spoken of

it here, as it appears, not once, but often, and with many people.

However, I have naturally no desire to enter into a controversy, but

simply to make sure of the fact that this story, impossible as it

seems, emanates from you."

"But really, Werben, I may have--it is just possible--made some

communication to our old friend Baroness Kniebreche."

"Pardon me one moment, Herr von Wallbach. Herr von Lassberg, would you

be kind as to come here for a minute to hear an explanation which Herr

von Wallbach will be good enough to give me? You say, Herr von

Wallbach, that it is quite possible you may have made a certain

communication to our old friend Baroness Kniebreche. Will you oblige me

by going on?"

"I really do not know what communication you are thinking of!" cried

Herr von Wallbach.

"Do you mean to compel me to mention names?" asked Ottomar, with a

scornful movement of his lip, whilst his flashing eyes seemed to pierce

Herr von Wallbach's, who stood there helpless, in painful perplexity.

"I think this is sufficient," said Ottomar, turning to his companion;

"of course, I will put you _au courant_ at once. Herr von Wallbach, you

will hear more from me to-morrow, for to-day I have the honour----"

Ottomar took his companion by the arm, and walked back to his place

with him, talking to him with passionate eagerness, whilst Wallbach

was surrounded by several of his acquaintances, who from a distance

had watched the scene between him and Ottomar, and now wished,

with all discretion, to know what had passed between him and his

"brother-in-law."

"I cannot engage myself without first speaking to Herr von Werben,"

Bertalda was just saying, her eyes shining with the desire to dance

with the handsome young Italian.

"Are you engaged to that gentleman?" asked Antonio.

"No, but he brought me here in his carriage, and is to take me back

again. He wanted to go before. There he comes, ask him--or I will do so

myself."

Ottomar, who had just parted with his companion, with a shake of the

hand and the words, "To-morrow, then, at eight," was now close to them.

"This gentleman--Herr Antonio Michele, wishes to dance the next waltz

with me," said Bertalda. "They are dancing upstairs quite merrily."

Ottomar did not answer immediately. He had already once or twice looked

at Antonio, who had sat corner-wise to him at the artists' table,

without being able to recollect where he had seen that handsome dark

face before. Now as he looked into the black eyes, he knew it was in

Justus's studio. This was Justus's Italian assistant, whom Ferdinanda

had warned him against, of whom she had said that he persecuted her

with his love, that she trembled before his jealousy! In the black eyes

which were fastened upon him there gleamed, in spite of the courteous

smile upon the lips, an evil flame, as of hate and jealousy mingled. An

inexpressible mixed feeling of contempt, disgust and terror passed

through Ottomar. After all he had already suffered this evening, that

this should be added!

"I must beg you to excuse the lady," he said in his haughtiest tone; "I

was just going to offer her my carriage to return home in."

Antonio had discovered long ago from the artists, who were greater

frequenters of the theatre than himself, who Bertalda was.

"I will see the lady safely home by-and-by," he said, with an equivocal

smile.

The blood flew into Ottomar's face.

"Insolent fellow!" he cried between his teeth, as he lifted his hand.

Antonio started back and put his hand to his breast pocket. Bertalda

threw herself almost into Ottomar's arms, and drew him on one side. At

that moment, a perfect swarm of men, who had assembled for a game of

pool in the billiard-room, poured into the conservatory between the

disputants.

Their startled countenances, their violent gesticulations, their loud

and confused words, all proclaimed that something unusual had occurred,

and that they brought terrible news. But the terrible news had already

spread from the other side--from the vestibule into the supper-room. It

had already reached the dancers above, who were hastening down the

broad stairs, whilst many others met them from the supper-room. "Is it

possible?--Have you heard?--Good heavens!--Pretty work!--Who would have

thought it!--A man like that!--Let us get away--No one can get away

till the house has been searched!--We shall see about that!--Good

gracious! where is papa?--A glass of water. For heaven's sake! don't

you hear?"

No one heard. Neither the servants, nor the guests, who were streaming

out of the rooms into the vestibule and cloak-room, where there was

soon a positively dangerous crowd.

It was in vain that some calmer people attempted to quiet the mob; in

vain that the released police officer and his men tried to stem the

current. The terrified people crowded in confused masses from the

brightly-illuminated house, which was still echoing with the noise of

the festival, into the dark streets, through which the midnight storm

was howling.

BOOK VI.

CHAPTER I.

"Has Friedrich not come back yet!"

"No, General."

August, who had his hand already upon the door, was just leaving the

room.

"One moment!" said the General.

August obeyed with a face of much embarrassment; the General had come

close up to him, and there was in his countenance, not anger, as August

assured himself by one nervous glance upwards, but something peculiar;

while the deep tones of his voice did not sound peremptory but very

strange, thought August.

"It is of great importance to me to know where my son is at this

moment; Friedrich will perhaps not return immediately, and I am losing

precious time. You do not know where Friedrich was to take the things?"

The faithful fellow trembled, and his broad, honest face quivered as if

tears were not far off; it was only with an effort that he could

answer: "Yes, General; Friedrich told me, and he has already two or

three times had to take things there when the Lieutenant did not come

home; she is called Fräulein Bertalda, and lives in ---- Street, and

is, with all due respect, a person who----"

"Good!" said the General, "you need not send Friedrich to me now. It is

possible that I may require to send you out. Be ready, therefore!"

"Breakfast will be ready. General----"

"I shall not breakfast to-day."

"Fräulein Sidonie was coming to speak to you, sir; can she come now?"

"I am very sorry--I am busy--you must tell Fräulein Sidonie."

The General turned back into the room. August, in his heartfelt

anxiety, longed to say: "If only our young lady were here!" But he did

not venture, and so slipped out.

"Part of it was true then," murmured the General, "so I suppose the

rest will be also."

He went up to his writing-table, on which lay an open letter that he

had received a quarter of an hour before from Herr von Wallbach.

Bending over it in vague bewilderment, supporting himself by one hand

on the table, he almost mechanically perused it again, then raised

himself with a long-drawn breath and passed his hand over his bushy

brows, as if trying to sweep away from his mind, like a bad dream, the

fearful thing which he read there. Not merely what he read! between the

lines there flitted to and fro terrible things which he himself had

mentally inserted whilst he read, as in a bad dream the most dreadful

part is not in the images which a terror-stricken imagination calls up,

but in the expectation of horrors that are still to come. And yet! what

more could come, when an alliance with the Werben family was declined

as dishonourable! when satisfaction was denied to a Werben!

The latter point, as the most comprehensible, was that to which the

unhappy man's wandering thoughts returned and clung most persistently.

A betrothal broken off was a thing that had happened before and might

happen again; it was a trifle even, a mere nothing, if only honour were

untouched by it, if only Ottomar could stake his life upon his

unimpeachable honour. Might not Wallbach's cowardice--he had always

thought the man a coward--be taking advantage of Ottomar's

difficulties, which "had reached a height and assumed a character that

made it dubious, at least, if Herr von Werben were still entitled to

demand satisfaction as an officer and a gentleman, or even from the

standpoint of ordinary honesty."

This must be cleared away! He had thought since that last affair, when

in the autumn he had paid the bills which had come into his hands, that

everything was settled, since no more bills had been presented to

him--he had erred, grossly erred. Ottomar in his need had drawn more

bills--he himself was the cause of Ottomar being in such need!--why had

he at that time so sternly refused him any further assistance? Might he

not have known that such embarrassment cannot be at once ended? that

when a man's true friends refused their assistance he would turn to

false friends who would ruthlessly make profit out of his position, as

had evidently been the case here? No matter, no matter! all should be

forgiven and forgotten, if Ottomar would only confide in him again,

would only allow him to put things straight for him again, as he had so

often done. But could he do so? Counting all that he possessed, he

could not make up more than about ten thousand thalers. That might not

be enough; as much again might perhaps be wanted; it should be found

then, it must be found--it must! Ottomar had evidently sent his man for

his sash that he might make the necessary communication to his colonel

of what had occurred. Herr von Bohl would of course require that the

money difficulties should be settled before bringing the matter before

a court of honour. He himself would then become surety to the fullest

extent for Ottomar's debts; their old friend would for once--once more!

not look too closely into it; he would accept the surety and let the

matter rest till all was settled. If only Ottomar would not now, at

this very time, let himself be led into taking steps--that must be the

meaning of the obscure part of Wallbach's letter; what else could the

man mean?--steps which could only increase the difficulty of arranging

the business. That an officer should put his name to a bill with the

most exorbitant interest--that was, alas! for Ottomar no new thing! The

fact that he had sent for plain clothes as well as for his sash

appeared to point to some such intention. There was not a moment to

lose! he had lost only too many in his first bewilderment! The General

rang the bell. He was himself in plain clothes this morning, as he

usually had been since his retirement; he would put on his uniform. It

would take him a few minutes longer, but he always felt a little want

of confidence without his uniform, and there must be no want of

confidence to-day. As August still did not come after he had rung a

second time, he was about to go to his bedroom, when there came a knock

at the door, and on his irritable "Come in!" Captain von Schönau

entered the room.

"I beg your pardon, General," said Schönau, "for coming in unannounced,

but I did not find your servant outside, and my errand here will bear

of no delay."

The perfect calmness and concentrated energy which generally marked the

Captain's well-cut features had given place to an expression of the

deepest anxiety and trouble.

"You come about Ottomar's affairs?" said the General, mastering his

fears, and stretching out his hand to the Captain.

"Yes, General, and I beg and implore you to allow me to keep silence as

to how I obtained my knowledge of the state of his affairs. But the

state is this, that without any delay whatever, and before the matter

comes to Herr von Bohl's knowledge, those bills of Ottomar's which are

due to-day, and are in the hands of a banker here, whose address I

know, must be paid. I know also the total of them. The sum is large, so

large that so far as I know, General, neither you nor I alone could pay

it; but together we might find it possible if, as I do not doubt, you

will put at my disposal all that you can lay your hands upon, and will

allow me to take the further management of the affair into my own hands

and deal with it as if it were mine."

Schönau had spoken with decision, but in breathless haste, and the

General could not doubt but that the Captain's thoughts had taken the

same direction as his own. So long as Ottomar was left to himself, and

attempted to save himself in his usual fashion, any delay could only

increase the difficulties of his position, perhaps make it impossible

for his friends, with the best will in the world, to help him. However

painfully his pride was wounded by the conviction that he could not

avert the threatening danger by his own efforts, he had made up his

mind, even while Schönau was speaking, to accept the help so generously

offered to him, supposing that he found it possible to repay the debt

thus incurred. This he expressed in the fewest words, at the same time

explaining the state of his finances and naming the sum which at the

utmost could be raised upon the security of his interest in his house.

"Will that suffice!" he asked, "and for how much shall I be indebted to

you?"

"It will suffice," said Schönau; "and I only ask now for a line to your

banker, giving me full powers."

"You have not answered my last question," said the General, as with

rapid pen he wrote the required words.

"I must beg you to excuse me from answering," replied Schönau; "be

satisfied that the remainder does not surpass my means, and that it

will be an honour and a pride to me to be able to serve you and your

family."

The young man's steady clear voice faltered as he said the last words.

As the General continued writing, he remembered that amongst their

friends Schönau's and Elsa's names had been often coupled together in

jest, with the regret that it might not be done in earnest, as the two

were far too good friends ever to fall in love with each other. He had

shared this view, not without some regret. Could he have been mistaken?

Could Schönau--it would be no detraction from his generosity--be

offering help less to the father of his friend than to the father of

the girl he loved? In the excited state of his mind these thoughts had

taken no more time than was required to carry his hand from the end of

one line to the beginning of another; and moved by the sudden

consideration, he stopped in his writing, and looked up at Schönau who

stood by him.

A sad smile played round the Captain's firmly-closed lips.

"Do not stop, General," said he; "I desire and expect nothing, I assure

you, but the continuation of your friendship and that of your

belongings."

The General compressed his lips and went on writing. It was

bitter--most bitter to him to have to take everything from the full

hands of this generous friend, with no power of returning to him

anything from his own empty ones--it was too bitter! A cloud came over

his eyes; he was forced to break off.

"There is nothing but the signature wanting," urged Schönau, leaning

over his shoulder.

"I cannot do it, Schönau!" said the General.

"I implore you," cried the Captain, "life and death hang upon it--oh!

my God!"

Startled by a sound at the door, he had turned and saw Colonel von Bohl

enter the room.

"Too late!" muttered Schönau; and then, with a desperate effort to save

what was already lost: "Your signature. General!"

But the General had turned round, and had seen the Colonel. Ottomar

then had been to him already--had told him everything; the affair could

go no further without consultation with his commanding officer.

The Colonel's usually severe military aspect had the stamp of a solemn

gravity upon it now, as he said, after briefly apologising for his

intrusion:

"Have the goodness, my dear Schönau, to leave us. I have a

communication to make to the General which will admit of no delay, and

which I must make without witnesses."

A word trembled upon Schönau's lips, but he restrained himself, and

only bowed and said:

"Certainly, Colonel!" and then turning to the General: "May I ask

permission to pay my respects meanwhile to Fräulein Sidonie!" then,

after a little pause: "In case you should wish, however, to see me

again, I think my visit will be a long one."

He bowed again and went. The General looked after him with fixed,

terrified eyes. Evidently there was some understanding between Schönau

and the Colonel, although they had not spoken to one another yet;

evidently both knew something that Schönau had not said, and that the

Colonel had now come to say. He shuddered as before when he had laid

down Wallbach's letter; again there came upon him that agony of fear,

only now it was no longer lingering at the threshold; now it had come

close to him in the person of this iron soldier, in whom, though he had

never formed any intimacy with him socially, he had always seen and

honoured the pattern of a soldier after his own heart. The door was

shut behind Schönau.

"I know all," cried the General; and said to himself, at the same

moment, that he had spoken falsely.

The Colonel shook his head.

"You do not know all, General; Schönau could not tell you all, or

rather, as I suspect from his manner, would not tell you all."

"Then I am prepared for anything," said the General in a hollow voice.

Again the Colonel shook his head.

"I wish you were, but I think it is impossible. You must be prepared

for the worst; your son's bills, which fall due to-day, are all

forgeries."

The General fell back as if he had been shot, his hands convulsively

grasping the air. The Colonel sprang forward to save him from falling,

but with a frightful effort the unhappy man recovered himself before

the other could touch him, and stammered: "I--I thank you--it is

over--it is----"

He could say no more, he could bear no more, but fell back into his

chair, pressing his cold hands to his throbbing temples, and muttering

with bloodless lips: "It is all over--all over!"

The Colonel, who could only with great difficulty retain his own

composure, drew forward a chair, and said:

"It is terrible, I can offer you no word of consolation, for I know

only too well that you will not take it as an extenuating circumstance

that it was your name, his father's name, in and by which the fraud was

carried out."

"You are right, quite right," said the General; "the fact is

irrelevant--absolutely irrelevant."

Had he understood? Did he know what he was saying? The Colonel, who had

not taken his eyes off him, almost doubted; the dark eyes, usually so

steady, stared vacantly into nothing; the voice that had formerly been

so strong and decided, sounded harsh and wavering as if his mind were

giving way; the Colonel thought it best to recall him to a sense of the

reality, however terrible, by a relation of the circumstances.

He related, therefore, in his dry way, that Ottomar had come to him at

about ten o'clock, and had immediately on his entrance announced to

him, with the calmness of utter, hopeless despair, that he had that

morning sent a challenge by Herr von Lassberg to Herr von Wallbach, on

account of certain reports, now current in society, concerning on the

one hand his relations with Fräulein Ferdinanda Schmidt, and on the

other Fräulein von Wallbach's conduct with Count Golm, which reports

could only have originated with Herr von Walbach. That Herr von

Wallbach, without further reference to the truth or untruth of these

reports, or to his share in spreading them, had refused satisfaction,

until Herr von Werben had cleared himself from the suspicion of having

lately made use of improper methods to free himself from his money

difficulties. He, Herr von Wallbach, would of course be ready to give

satisfaction for this insinuation touching his honour in case it should

not be substantiated.

"Unfortunately," continued the Colonel, "Herr von Wallbach was but too

sure of his facts. His informant, whose name, I know not from what

consideration, he refused to mention even to Herr von Lassberg, could

only be, according to your son's assertion, the very man with whose

assistance this miserable fraud has been carried out; a man whose name,

if I remember rightly, has been often mentioned lately in the Wallbach

circle--Signor Giraldi."

"Impossible!" exclaimed the General. "My son could not--impossible!"

"I beg your pardon, General," said the Colonel, "I am repeating to you

exactly the account which I received from your son's mouth, and which I

believe to be perfectly truthful. According to him, from the first

moment of their acquaintance, Signor Giraldi manifested the most lively

interest in your son. Herr von Werben intimated also that Signor

Giraldi had known and encouraged his passion for a certain lady; but he

did not go further upon this point, only added that these, as he

believed, equally treacherous efforts had proved absolutely useless.

Although from his agitation Herr von Werben's account omitted some

details, I must suppose that he has been, with regard to his money

affairs, also the innocently guilty victim of a villain who has

mercilessly made use of his unsuspicious and blind confidence for ends

which escape my comprehension. It seems that Herr von Werben's evil

genius recommended him, as the easiest means of freeing himself from

his difficulties, to speculate on the Exchange, under a feigned name of

course; that he enticed him into the wildest speculations, allowed him

to win two or three times at first, till suddenly the luck changed and

turned more and more against him; and then, as usual, bills had to be

given, to which at first your son's name was put, and afterwards, as

the sums grew larger, yours, General, was forged, with the help of the

credit which Signor Giraldi enjoyed, although he declares himself to be

without any available means. That the bills might not come into your

hands too soon, they were lodged at first with various bankers, and

finally with one alone whose name has unfortunately escaped me. Signor

Giraldi undertook to meet them regularly as they fell due, and promised

of course to meet them also to-day when the enormous sum of twenty

thousand thalers is due. Herr von Werben of course went at once, on the

receipt of Herr von Wallbach's answer, to Signor Giraldi's hotel;

Signor Giraldi had left in the night. From that moment Herr von Werben

seems to have given up the case as hopeless. Signor Giraldi had, as you

may suppose, most distinctly engaged to receive him at this hour; the

people of the hotel declared that he had not so much as mentioned his

destination; it was only when Herr von Werben, whose suspicions were

aroused by the porter's manner, offered him a considerable bribe, that

he learned from the man that Signor Giraldi had gone to Warnow, where

letters were to be forwarded to him. With despair in his heart he

hastened to the banker, to hear only what he had expected: that Signor

Giraldi had made no arrangements for meeting the bills, which however

had not yet been presented, but on the contrary had withdrawn from the

bank yesterday afternoon the remainder of the very large sum--half a

million, if I mistake not--which he had deposited with them. Half an

hour later Herr von Werben was with me."

The Colonel paused; he could no longer endure the sight of the General,

who still stared straight before him like a man bereft of his senses.

What was he brooding over? Undoubtedly upon the final end of the story,

and undoubtedly also upon the same brief and bloody end which in his

innermost heart he felt to be unavoidable. But this man was the father!

he had not fully considered that before. He had not allowed himself to

put forward any extenuating circumstance; now he ransacked his mind for

any such circumstance, for any sincere word of comfort even in which he

could himself have faith.

But he found none.

"Shall we ask Schönau to come in again?" said he.

The General lifted his fixed eyes, evidently not understanding why the

Colonel should ask the question, having probably forgotten that Schönau

was still in the house.

The Colonel did not wait for his answer, but rang the bell and desired

August, who immediately appeared, having been in the kitchen giving

vent to his grief to the old cook, to summon Herr von Schönau. The

Captain meanwhile had been passing a most uncomfortable half-hour. With

the terrible certainty that he had come too late, and that Ottomar was

lost, now that he had officially informed his commanding officer of his

misconduct, and that the latter, as was to be expected from his

opinions and his ideas of honour, had acquainted Ottomar's father with

what had occurred; with the miserable anxiety which increased every

moment till it became an unspeakable terror, that now--now--at this

very moment might happen, perhaps had already happened, what must

plunge his loved and honoured friends into unutterable grief, it was

too painful to have to keep up a conversation with the good-humoured,

unsuspecting, and talkative old lady upon indifferent or tiresome

subjects, such as the bad weather, the next ball at court, or a

doubtful passage in "Malortie" which had already cost the compiler of

"Court Etiquette" several sleepless nights.

"And, before I forget it," said Sidonie, "have you heard yet of the

shocking thing that happened last night, and of which, people tell me,

the whole town is talking? I am sorry for our neighbour, poor Herr

Schmidt; he is a very respectable sort of man I am told, and he keeps a

man-servant who is--only think, my dear Schönau!--a cousin or something

of the sort of our August, and August told us--my brother and me--since

Elsa has been away he always takes his coffee with me, which he used

not to do, but he is always so kind and attentive-- What was I saying,

my dear Schönau? oh! yes; it is another proof to me that nothing but

harm and evil can come out of societies that have once imbibed the

poison of democratic tendencies. A young man who has been educated in

those pernicious principles has no safeguard in the critical moments of

his life such as religion and family honour, thank God, afford us. At

such moment he seizes--not I dare say without some struggles--for after

all we are all children of God, however few of us walk in His ways--but

still he seizes upon improper, doubtful, desperate, and even criminal

means. Millions, so I am told, he has stolen from a safe entrusted to

him; and then to take flight at the very moment when he was giving a

large party. What recklessness! what a want of the most ordinary

delicacy, although, quite between ourselves, my dear Schönau, I do not

think it particularly delicate of us to take part in festivities which

end in such a way. I indeed might triumph, for what in the world could

prove better than such occurrences how necessary is the existence of

well-ordered small courts, as schools of morals and manners, of

chivalry and true goodness, to our distracted and increasingly

democratic society? But heaven forbid that I should feel such pride! My

sentiments are those of silent grief and tender pity, all the more

that, as you know, Ottomar also could not deny himself this equivocal

pleasure. When the models of modern chivalry go and dance at Herr

Schmidt's, Herr Schmidt himself, indeed, is none the better for it, as

we see, since a crow will always remain a crow; but the swans, my dear

Schönau, I only ask you, can the swans retain their purity in such

company?"

Schönau was spared the necessity of answering, as August here came to

summon him, and he took his leave in a way which so little agreed with

his usual irreproachable demeanour, that Sidonie, as the door closed

behind him, shook her head, and opined that her little lecture would

not come amiss to the Captain.

"I beg your pardon, Captain," said August, as they crossed the hall to

the General's room.

Schönau looked round.

"I beg your pardon, Captain, but I am sure something has happened to

our young gentleman. Could not you let a faithful servant, sir, who has

been eight years in the family, and would go through fire and water for

the General, or the Lieutenant, or our young lady, know what it is?"

The tears were rolling over the honest fellow's cheeks, and Schönau's

own eyes were moist.

"No," said he, "I cannot tell you. We must hope that all may yet be

well."

He gave August his hand.

"God grant it!" said August, wiping his eyes with the other hand; "I

don't think man can do much. But I wanted to say, too, if you wished,

sir, to speak to our young gentleman, he will be at the lady's

in ---- Street--you know, sir."

When Schönau entered he found the two others sitting in silent

meditation. At a sign from the Colonel he sat down, but, as the

youngest, did not venture to break the unnatural stillness. At last the

General raised his head; he seemed to the Captain to have grown years

older, and his voice was dull and toneless like that of an old man.

"You are aware, Captain, what--on what account----"

The words came with difficulty from his throat.

"Yes, General," said Schönau. "Herr von Wallbach came to me this

morning, with the acknowledged purpose of justifying his conduct in the

eyes of Ottomar's friends and those of his family. He was evidently

playing a carefully prepared game. For while he skilfully avoided every

expression which could directly accuse Ottomar, I could plainly

perceive by every word that he was absolutely certain of his facts, and

that Signor Giraldi had initiated him into the minutest details of this

unfortunate affair. From him also I learned the sum at stake, and the

name of the banker who held the bills, who happens to be also my

uncle's banker, and with whom I am personally acquainted through

business which I have transacted for my uncle--Messrs. Haselow & Co. I

hastened there at once, but came too late; Ottomar had just been there.

I am sorry to say that his only too easily explained agitation and his

distracted questions have at least startled those gentlemen, but I am

convinced that I allayed any doubts by asserting positively--I was

obliged as matters stood to take the liberty, General--that before this

evening all bills due should be taken up. I intended then, when I had

collected the money with your assistance, sir, to pay these bills,

and--"

The Captain hesitated.

"To save a swindler from his just punishment," said the General,

without looking up.

"To save a man whom I venerate beyond all men, from unmerited

suffering," returned the Captain.

"That implies a reproach to me, Captain von Schönau!" said the Colonel,

knitting his brows.

"Pardon me, Colonel, if I differ from you. I had here no office but

that of friendship. You, sir, as Colonel, had received an official

communication, of which you were obliged to take notice, the more so

that the idea of an arrangement of the affair would not and could not

strike you as it would me."

"That is to say, if I understand you rightly, that as soon as the

arrangement was effected you would have considered the affair at an

end? I confess that, however painful it is to me, I cannot agree with

you in that view."

"Pardon me again, I did not intend to say that."

"I should be much obliged to you, Captain, if you would communicate

your opinion to me without reservation, in the presence of General von

Werben."

"I am obliged to you for the permission, Colonel; the whole thing

turned for me upon the question of sparing as much as possible the

General and his family, as they so fully deserve to be spared. This of

course would require also that my friend should be spared to a certain

degree. That is to say, the bills must be paid, as I hoped to be able

to pay them with the General's help, and they must be paid as the

General's bills. I should then of course have required that my unhappy

friend should leave the service, under some pretext that might easily

have been found, and should retire absolutely into private life."

Schönau had raised his keen eyes imploringly to the Colonel, who, on

his side, never turned his look from the speaker. He understood him now

for the first time. In explaining his own plans the Captain had at the

same time suggested the line which he wished his commanding officer to

adopt as a guide to his action if not to his views. Even in this light

the matter was one of great gravity, the Colonel felt and knew this

well; but the sight of the venerable man before him so utterly broken

down, the remembrance of Ottomar's thousand proofs of courage before

the enemy, and all the tender memories and compassionate feelings which

crowded upon his mind, all told him that he had already gone to his

utmost length, that he could do no more, that notwithstanding what he

felt to be his duty, he must accept the compromise suggested by the

Captain, at any rate must refrain from putting forward the reasons

against it.

"Thank you. Captain," said he; "I hope that, even as regards the claims

of the service, this most unhappy affair may be settled as you propose.

I am glad on this account, that in the first shock and bewilderment, as

I must confess, of what might happen next, I gave Herr von Werben three

days' leave of absence, which he had requested on account of private

affairs, though he entered into no particulars on the subject, nor did

he confide to me the object of the journey which he must undertake in

consequence. This leave of absence will be a very proper preparation

for sending in his papers, which must be done at the same time with a

notification of his wish to retire, and which I will undertake to

support with the authorities. I only require first that the bills

should meanwhile be settled by Captain von Schönau in the manner

suggested."

Schönau gave the Colonel a grateful look and rose. He would not hazard

the unexpectedly happy result of the interview, and he knew too well

that every word further spoken now might and would endanger it.

"I am already late for my work," said he, "and I must go down to the

Staff Office to ask leave of my chief for the day. I will then

immediately settle the matter of the bills, if the General will have

the goodness to give me his authority, and then, with your permission,

inform Herr von Werben, whom I think I know where to find, of what has

been decided here. May I ask you, General?" and Schönau pointed towards

the table on which lay the unsigned power of attorney.

The Colonel had risen also.

"One moment, gentlemen," said the General.

He walked up to the table, took the paper and tore it into two pieces,

which he threw into the waste-paper basket.

It was done without any visible emotion, without any apparent thought

of those present, as if some one alone in his study had torn up and

thrown away a letter that had now become worthless. The Captain

shuddered at the fall of the rustling paper, as a pitiful judge might

do as he puts on the black cap.

"I thank you, gentlemen," continued the General, who seemed to have

completely recovered his self-possession; "you, Colonel, for the

humanity which would have extended to another man's son the mercy you

would surely have denied to your own; you, my dear Schönau for the

affection which would lead you to sacrifice not merely your fortune,

but, like the Colonel, your conviction also.

"I cannot accept this sacrifice, gentlemen. One wrong figure spoils the

sum, one false premise nullifies the conclusion. You must allow a

father to draw the inference which you from friendship and compassion

would not draw. If with the assistance of Captain von Schönau--for

alone it would be impossible--I took upon myself my son's fraud and

thus--which God forbid!--allowed a man who is himself not rich, like

you, my dear Schönau, to impoverish himself for the sake of a swindler,

my son would then be allowed, there being nothing further against him,

to retire with honour. His Majesty, our gracious commander-in-chief,

would certify to the honour of a man, who, before God and his

conscience, before his father and you, gentlemen, who cannot at this

moment raise your eyes to me, is dishonoured. He could call to account

those who doubted his honour, and there would be enough of them--his

enemies would see to that--he who must acknowledge to himself that they

are in the right, and that in the very act of demanding and receiving

satisfaction he was perpetrating another deceit.

"And thus, gentlemen, the one lie--forgive me the word!--would call

forth a thousand new lies; and we who sit here should have spun this

web of deceit, and must leave those who become entangled in it without

warning or aid.

"The situation is impossible, gentlemen! Impossible--even for my son.

Guilty as he is, he cannot be so false to the blood of his ancestors as

to determine to exist at the mercy of even his best and most generous

friends; to live under the sword of the doubtful reputation that must

precede and follow him whichever way he turned; to endure the scorn

that any man might make him feel as he pleased, without the power of

defending himself.

"And it is impossible--to me. Suppose to yourselves that I were the

president of a court of honour which had to decide upon this case;

forget for a moment that I am a father--and you would, you must answer

me that it is impossible."

"I cannot forget it!" cried Schönau wildly; "I cannot!"

"You must," returned the General, "as the Colonel here has already

done."

The Colonel was in the most painful embarrassment. The General was

undoubtedly right, and he would thus be released from a very difficult

position; and yet! and yet!

"I have already expressed my most decided wish to arrange the affair

without letting matters proceed to extremities," said he, "I hope the

General may yet persuade himself of the possibility of so doing,

however difficult I allow such a solution may be. Meanwhile, Herr von

Werben is on leave of absence. Bills of exchange have, if I remember

rightly"--the Colonel attempted a smile--"three days' law. Let us make

use of this delay granted by the law; three days count for a great deal

under some circumstances in the life of a man. Shall we leave the

General alone now, my dear Schönau?"

The two officers went silently down the street, with their heads bent,

and from time to time pressing on their caps more firmly, which the

storm that raged through the streets threatened to blow away. At the

corner of the cross street Schönau said: "I must take a carriage from

here, Colonel."

"You are going to him?"

"Yes, sir."

"It is a hopeless case, my dear Schönau."

"I fear so."

"You will bring me news!"

"Certainly, sir."

"It is eleven o'clock now; I shall be at home till two."

The Colonel pressed the Captain's hand with a warmth very unusual for

him, turned up the collar of his overcoat, and went on down the street.

Schönau's cab drove quickly up the side street.

The General had remained standing at the door, to which he had

accompanied the others, and listened mechanically to their steps upon

the stone floor of the hall, then under the window of his room, and

passing away down the street.

Now he could hear nothing more, excepting the storm which was raging

without. They were gone, these men of the highest honour, the

representatives of his class, gone after pronouncing sentence upon the

dishonoured and unworthy member of that class.

And that sentence was--death.

Death by his own hand.

And his father must announce it to him.

No! not that; only confirm what he must have already said to himself;

only say: "Your father agrees to what you have already decided upon,

and may God have mercy upon your soul!"

He pressed his hands together, and heavy cold drops of sweat stood on

his deeply-furrowed brow.

"Must it be? oh God, my God, have mercy upon me! must it be?"

But no word of comfort or hope came to him. All was dumb within him, in

his burning head, in his panting breast, and through that dumb silence

only the fearful words: "It must be!"

When August entered the room at the sound of the bell, the General was

sitting, turned away from him, at his writing-table, leaning his head

upon his hand. On the round table behind him, on which he used always

to put his finished papers, stood a box, and on the box lay a letter.

August turned cold all over; it was the box in which his master kept

the two beautiful old pistols which he had inherited from his father,

and on which he set such great store.

"My son is obliged to undertake a long journey," said the General; "and

he will require my pistols. The key is in the letter. You will go to

him at once, and take him the box and the letter; there is no further

message, the letter contains everything. Afterwards I shall go away

also; when you come back you will put up my things for a few days'

absence."

"Very well, General," said August, merely to say something, and so

perhaps to get free of the horror which oppressed him.

With mechanical obedience he had carefully taken up the letter and box,

and stopped at the door.

"Shall I say anything kind from you to the Lieutenant, sir?"

There was a few moments' pause before the answer came.

He mustered all his courage:

"Tell him, I hope to God to be with him soon again."

The faithful servant breathed again. He was satisfied now; whatever had

happened between the General and the Lieutenant must be something very

bad, much worse than it had ever been before, but if the General hoped

to meet the Lieutenant again, and that very soon too, there was nothing

to break one's heart over, and it would soon be all right, as the

Captain had said indeed.

But when August had left the room, the General let his head fall upon

his clasped hands, and so sat for a long time, while his whole frame

was shaken at times as if with ague, or at others a dull groan was

forced from his oppressed breast, as he prayed for his son's soul, and

took leave of that son of whom he had been so proud, and who might no

longer live now with the shame that he had brought upon himself; the

son whom he had so dearly loved, and whom he still loved, oh! how

dearly!

At last he rose, an old, broken-down man, with but one thing more for

him to do on earth.

For that, he knew that his strength would suffice.

And not trembling and with burning tears as he had loaded the pistol

which he sent to his son, but with a steady hand and rigid flaming eyes

did he load the second, with which to shoot down the scoundrel who with

devilish cunning had enticed his son to disgrace and death.