It was about four o'clock in the afternoon. Frau von Wallbach sat in
the drawing-room, in her usual place by the fire, and stared at the
flames, which, after many vain efforts, had at last been successfully
kindled; and, notwithstanding the terrible uproar that raged round the
castle, was on the point of forgetting her annoyance in a refreshing
afternoon nap, when Signor Giraldi was announced, having only just
arrived.
"He might as well have stayed away another hour," said Frau von
Wallbach. "Well, it is all the same to me; let dinner be got ready for
him, François, and then ask him to come here."
"Signor Giraldi particularly wishes to see you at once, ma'am."
"Very well; it is all the same to me today."
Frau von Wallbach had just time to turn her head towards the door as
she leant back in her chair, when Giraldi entered. He was still in his
travelling dress, having only thrown down his wet cloak in the hall;
his black beard, which was usually so carefully arranged, was wild and
dishevelled; his calm, dark eyes glowed with a lurid fire; his usually
impassive face, that had seemed chiselled in yellow marble, was
furrowed and agitated.
"Dear me, how strange you look!" said Frau von Wallbach.
"I must apologise," answered Giraldi; "but I have been travelling since
last night, perpetually detained by the most provoking hindrances, and
I arrive here at last to learn that the Baroness, with whom I have to
talk upon the most important and urgent affairs, is not at home. You
can imagine----"
"Do sit down," said Frau von Wallbach. "You make me quite nervous by
standing about like that, and talking so quickly."
"I must apologise again," said Giraldi.
"Not at all. I only remained here to receive you, although I tell you
fairly that I had rather not have done so."
"Then I will not take up another moment of your valuable time----"
"Do sit still, and don't make any speeches. I never make any, as you
know, and am not at all inclined for them to-day. Oh yes, you may look
at me as scornfully as you please. I dare say you think me, as other
people do, half a child or a fool; but children and fools speak the
truth, and the truth, my dear Signor Giraldi, is, that if you had not
intermeddled and set everything at sixes and sevens, Carla would be
Ottomar's wife by this time, and everything would be properly arranged,
while now she is out in this dreadful weather--you must have met them I
should think--riding with the Count, although I told her to the Count's
face that it was scandalous, to say nothing of her catching her death
of cold."
"You cannot possibly hold me responsible for the irresistible impulse
which makes heart meet heart," answered Giraldi, with an attempt at his
usual supremely ironical smile, which only resulted, however, in an
evil grimace.
"Hearts!" said Frau von Wallbach; "stuff! The little heart that Carla
ever had was Ottomar's, and no one else's; and there would have been
quite enough for matrimony, at least I know some that have done very
well with less. And as for the Count, good heavens! at first she was
always telling me that he talked such nonsense, and my husband said so
too, and old Countess Kniebreche and every one; and then you came and
cried him up to the skies, and of course what you said must be true,
and so you have got your own way so far. And why? because it suited you
that Ottomar should not marry, but should continue his careless way of
living, and get into all sorts of troubles and scrapes, and that you
should have him in your power. And you have succeeded very nicely, as
Carla would say. But I don't think it nice at all, but perfectly horrid
of you; for Ottomar has always been pleasant and good-natured to me,
and I like him a thousand times better than the Count; and if I had
never respected Elsa before, I should now that I see she does not care
one bit for the Count, but has declared honestly, as the Baroness told
me and Carla this morning in Elsa's name, that she is going to marry
her sailor, although it is rather a strange proceeding for a Fräulein
von Werben; but that is her affair; and she has gone with the Baroness
to see him at Wissow, or whatever the name of the place is, which is
quite right, I think, under the circumstances. I was to tell you this,
and that they would be back in a few hours; and now I will add a few
words from myself. You think, perhaps, that you have done something
very fine by upsetting Ottomar's and Carla's engagement; and I dare say
you are not less pleased at Elsa losing her inheritance in this way,
but you are very much mistaken. The Baroness and Elsa are one, heart
and soul; and if Ottomar chooses to marry Captain Schmidt's cousin, the
Baroness will have no objection, and she will make the brother and
sister her heirs, whatever the trustees may say. If I were in her place
I should do the same thing. And now here comes François to tell you, I
suppose, that your dinner is ready. I wish you a good appetite."
Frau von Wallbach's last words were spoken without the least touch of
sarcasm, in the same lazily comfortable way as the former ones, with
her pretty head resting sideways against the back of her chair, and her
eyes turned away from Giraldi and looking at the ceiling, as if it were
all written up there and she were merely reading it off.
But not the most passionate warmth, nor the bitterest attack could have
so upset the composure of the man who had sat before her gnawing his
white lips, without interrupting her by a word, and who now rose to
leave the room with a silent bow, as this imperturbable calmness and
blunt sincerity affected him from a woman whom he had hitherto
considered a nonentity, as the emptiest of all empty-headed dolls, and
who now dared to tell him this to his very face; to unfold the web of
intrigue which he had toiled so hard to spin with all the energy of his
crafty mind, and to show him the gaps which his sharp eye had
overlooked, his most watchful art had not succeeded in covering, and
then calmly to tear it from top to bottom like some worn-out rag!
He had hardly entered the dining-room, where a place had been laid for
him at one corner of the large table, before he gave free vent to the
fury which had nearly choked him. He stamped, he swore, he tore his
beard, like a madman, thought François, who handed him his soup as
calmly as if monsieur's wild gestures had been a gymnastic exercise
which every gentleman was in the habit of practising before sitting
down to dinner after a fatiguing journey and a long drive.
"Why don't you speak?" shrieked Giraldi.
"I am waiting for monsieur's permission."
"Speak, then!"
"I have written all my observations to monsieur with such
minuteness----"
"You have written nothing that was worth reading! You did not write me
one word about the intimacy that has sprung up between madame and her
niece, and which you must have seen if you had eyes in your head. You
are either a fool or a traitor."
"I am unfortunate----"
"Don't let me hear any of your confounded long words! I have no time
for them. What else do you know?"
"Besides what I told monsieur on his arrival, I know absolutely nothing
of importance. Ah! by-the-bye, I had almost forgotten that!"
François slapped his forehead suddenly. He had not forgotten it for a
moment; he had been considering all the time that monsieur was in the
drawing-room with Frau von Wallbach, whether he should say it or not.
He could not speak without betraying madame as he had betrayed
monsieur, but for what purpose take money from both if not to betray
both? So far everything had gone on well; all he had to consider was
that each step to right or left should be well paid; and if he were not
greatly deceived, now was the moment to take another step on monsieur's
side.
"Will you speak?" cried Giraldi, shaking his fist at him.
"I have forgotten it after all," said Francois, looking with impudent
coolness into Giraldi's face, that was white with passion.
Giraldi dropped his arms,
"How much?" he ejaculated.
"I cannot do it cheaply, monsieur. The matter, in case I can recollect
it, is one of the utmost importance for monsieur, and as madame has
been lately so extraordinarily kind to me, and has given me, through
Madame Feldner, so many sterling proofs of her kindness, and monsieur
will of course not trust me in future, but this will undoubtedly be the
last service which I shall render monsieur----"
"How much!" shrieked Giraldi.
"Ten thousand francs, monsieur."
Giraldi pulled out a pocket-book from which he took a handful of
bank-notes, and threw them on the table.
"Count them!"
"There are three thousand thalers, monsieur."
"Take them and speak!"
François smoothed the notes carefully, put them no less carefully into
one side of his pocket-book, and said, as he took a paper from the
other side:
"Monsieur's generosity is adorable, as usual. I should be most deeply
ashamed if I were not convinced that monsieur would take this as a
fully sufficient equivalent."
And, with a low bow, he handed Giraldi the paper--a copy of Elsa's
telegram to her father.
François had hoped that the terror which must now be painted on
monsieur's expressive face would produce an interesting variety in the
scene; but he flattered himself in vain. Monsieur, who had been
trembling all over with rage and fury, and who had gesticulated and
raved like a madman, now stood, after glancing in his own rapid fashion
over the paper, looking as calm and composed as François had ever yet
seen him; and asked, in his usual low inquiring voice:
"When and where was this sent out?"
"This morning, at five o'clock, from Prora, by a man on horseback, whom
I sent myself, after I had taken a copy of the open note."
"Then your news is not worth a farthing. The telegraphic communication
between Berlin and Sundin has been interrupted since four o'clock this
morning."
"Just so, monsieur. That was what the clerk said who received the
telegram, after he had inquired at Sundin and received the answer that
he might telegraph through Grünwald; there might be some chance there.
Inquiry made at Grünwald. Reply, 'Yes, and on through Stettin.' The
messenger, an old trustworthy servant, one of the late Herr von
Warnow's, monsieur, took note of everything, and reported it all to
mademoiselle in my presence, adding that according to the clerk's
report the telegram would reach Berlin rather late, but certainly in
the course of the morning."
"In your presence, do you say? How came that?"
François shrugged his shoulders.
"Mademoiselle knows how to appreciate my knowledge in such matters--an
old courier, monsieur! To speak the truth, I had myself given the
messenger the necessary instructions."
"Why were you not sent?"
François smiled.
"The night was very stormy, monsieur; I am not fond of roughing it. I
said I could not ride, and did not know the way."
"But you can ride, and you know the way to Wissow?"
François bowed.
"How far is it, to ride?"
"If one rides fast, one may do it in half an hour."
"Even through the storm?"
"I think so, monsieur."
"And how long would the ladies be, driving?"
"Like the rider, they must take the longest road over the hill and
through the villages, monsieur; that could not take less than an hour,
monsieur."
Giraldi had taken out his watch and was making a calculation. He put
back the watch.
"It is just twenty minutes past four. You must be ready in ten minutes,
at latest, to take a letter from me to madame at Wissow."
"Impossible, monsieur; even this morning, at eleven o'clock, Frau von
Wallbach, who was bent upon going away, could not get horses; nobody
will supply them, monsieur."
"There are the horses which brought me."
"Impossible, monsieur; I saw them, and they are quite exhausted. It
must be a good, fresh horse, monsieur, a riding horse. There are none
such in the stable."
"You can find one if I give you another thousand thalers in case madame
is back at the castle before six o'clock."
"Two thousand, monsieur."
"Good. And now, paper and ink--quick!"
François brought the required materials in a moment from the next room,
and Giraldi was already writing at the table beside his untouched
dinner, when François left the dining-room to prepare to earn the
second sum, if possible, of which he had serious doubts.
Giraldi wrote:
"Your drive to Wissow is a subterfuge or a flight. I forgive your
vacillation, even your desertion, which can only be a passing error,
for the sake of the love which you bear me, and which I bear you. And
if your love is extinct (mine is not!) the accompanying letter, which I
copy for you (the original, which I cannot trust to the messenger, I
retain in my own hands), will awake new flames from the ashes, as he
has awoke to life for us, in whose death I could never believe. And as
my faith was the stronger, so am I in all things stronger, and would
make unrestrained and pitiless use of that strength, no longer for
myself, but for our son. You know me, Valerie! As the clock strikes
six, I leave the castle for ever, with the Warnow property, which I
carry about me to the last thaler, and which now belongs to mother and
son, or to the son alone if it should appear that he has no mother. But
it cannot, it will not be. I implore to this end the most holy, the
sorrow-laden Mother of God. She who bore all the pangs of maternity
will guide a mother's heart!
"Giraldi.
"Warnow. Half-past four in the afternoon."
He took a letter from his pocket, which he had received last night when
he got home from Philip's party, and had first found time to read in
the waiting-room at the railway station, and wrote, with a hand that
flew like lightning over the paper:
"With failing hands, and eyes darkened by the shadow of death, I write
this: Antonio Michele is your son. A very aged woman in Arsoli, who has
been known since she suddenly appeared in this place, seven and twenty
years ago, under the name of Antonia Falcone, but whose real name is
Barbara Cecutti, and who was the mother of that Lazzaro who carried
off your child from Pœstum, confessed this to me yesterday on her
death-bed. She was found by the woman Michele in a ravine of the hills
above Tivoli, on the verge of starvation, the stolen child beside her
almost at the last gasp too, the wounded Lazzaro having breathed his
last an hour before, during their flight. The woman Michele took pity
upon these unfortunate creatures; the two women swore, on the Host,
the one never to say that she had received the child from Barbara, and
the other that she had given him to the Michele, so that Barbara might
wear out the end of her life undisturbed by the police, and that Father
Michele might make no inquiries after the parents of the child, whom
his wife pretended to have found on the hills, exposed, like Moses on
the shores of the Nile, by a poor girl whom she knew well, but whose
name she would not mention. She had never had any children herself,
though she had longed for them, and would not part with this one at any
price. She carried her secret with her to the grave. Barbara Cecutti
also is now no more; and you, my dear sir, receive this legacy from the
dead at the hand of a dying man. The ways of God are wonderful! Let us
praise His mercies! Amen!
"Ambrosio."
"Dear Sir,
"From the hand of a dying man, indeed! Our good brother Ambrosio--but
just returned from his charitable mission--has this night departed, let
us hope, into eternal blessedness, as no purgatory can be needed for
him who was a saint on earth, I send you his bequest, and beg you to
transfer to my poor convent the expression of your gratitude for the
happy tidings which the grace of God has permitted you to receive by
means of our brother who is now with Him.
"The Prior of the Convent of
"S. Michele at Tivoli,
"Eugenio."
Giraldi had just written the last word as the door flew open, admitting
François, who wore a long cloak, below which appeared a pair of
riding-boots. As he entered he exclaimed:
"Really, monsieur, I am ashamed to have doubted for an instant the luck
of such a man! As I went into the courtyard, the Count's groom galloped
in, who had been sent back to fetch a pocket-handkerchief which
mademoiselle had forgotten! If it had only been an umbrella! In fact,
monsieur, they wanted to get rid of the man; we shall hear nothing of
either of them before to-morrow morning, you may take my word for it. I
know the style of thing! I explained this to the man after a fashion,
and he will let me have his horse. He says that neither man nor devil
shall drive him out into this storm again."
"You must remain in my service, François," said Giraldi, laying his
hand on the impudent fellow's shoulder. "And now--don't spare the
horse."
"Monsieur may depend upon me!" answered François, putting the letter in
safety. "_Au revoir_, monsieur!"
François hastened away, and Giraldi went to the deep bow-window which
overlooked the courtyard, and watched while he mounted the handsome
beast, whose bridle the groom was holding, and, waving his hand towards
the window, galloped out of the yard.
Giraldi went back to the table and broke off a piece of bread, which he
washed down with the glass of wine that François had poured out for
him. Then he began slowly to walk up and down the great room with his
arms folded across his chest.
How could he have allowed himself to be so carried away by his
passion just now? What had happened for which he might not have been
prepared--for which, in fact, he had not been long prepared? The
weather was to blame for the disturbance of his nerves--weather only
fit for northern barbarians and those in league with them! It could
only have been some unfriendly demon which in the morning twilight had
driven the little steamer, that was to have brought him over to the
island from Sundin, against a rudderless drifting wreck, and so had
forced it to turn back; an unfriendly demon who forbade the rude
sailors to take his money and to venture the passage in an open boat,
till at last, at half-past eleven, the steamer was repaired, and then
took an hour to do the distance--half a nautical mile! Fiend against
fiend! Gregorio Giraldi was the stronger. If the telegram had really
reached the General at Berlin in proper time--if he left Berlin by the
eleven o'clock train, he could not be at Sundin before three o'clock,
or at Warnow before six. An hour! Kingdoms had been lost and won in an
hour; and everything, everything else was on his side: Ottomar
irretrievably entangled in the net which he had cast over him, and
already at deadly feud with Wallbach, whose giddy sister was now in
love with the Count, to say nothing else! the proud Elsa betrothed to a
man of low degree, paying for her love with her inheritance!--the
course clear from all obstacles, and at its goal the rich treasures,
the great estates, which now fell to Valerie by law, and which she must
leave absolutely to her own son, who had risen from the dead--that is
to say, she must leave them to himself! Could she choose to do
otherwise? Did any choice remain to her? Must she not submit whether
she would or no? And if she wavered--one minute only alone with
him--here in this room, in which so often they had in fancy stood
together, which she had so minutely described to him that he knew every
piece of furniture, every picture on the wall--this especially, the
portrait of the man from whose arms he had scornfully torn her, that
some day his picture might hang here--the portrait of the new lord, who
would pull down this barbaric edifice and build a new castle--the new
lord!
He stood before the picture, and looked at it with an evil smile.
"You were the last of your race, with your narrow forehead and the
broad ribbon of some high order over your cold heart! and now you are
mouldering in the tomb of your ancestors! And he, whom in life you
could not vie with, stands still alive here, in his undiminished
strength--the peasant's son, who will now be the founder of a race of
princes for whom even the chair of St. Peter shall not be too high!"
A shock like that of an earthquake struck the castle. The windows
rattled, the doors flew open and banged to again. The picture, to which
he was looking up, and which had hung from its rusty nail for a
generation past, shook and fell, so that the mouldered frame broke into
fragments, and the picture itself, after standing upright for a moment,
fell forward under his feet.
He sprang back.
"Do you still move, accursed dust? Down into hell to his accursed
soul!"
And, as if in answer to the master's voice, from the depths of hell to
which he had called, howls and yells resounded round Castle Warnow.