[Illustration: Reveille]
Baron Walther von Frielinghausen was made bombardier on July 1st.
He had now got his foot on the ladder of military distinction, but he
felt no special elation at the fact. What signified this little piece
of promotion in a career which had now no attraction for him?
Wegstetten had arranged that he should at once begin doing some of the
work of a corporal; but this, too, had its inconvenient side. When
merely a gunner he had always imagined that he knew better than those
uneducated fellows the non-coms.; and he had occasionally looked
forward to the moment when he would be put in authority, and would be
able to show off some of his knowledge. But now to command had become
more difficult than to obey, and there was certainly just as much blame
going. One was scolded as if one were a silly boy, and the men always
took notice of the fact.
Only one thing caused him pleasant anticipations: he would have riding
lessons. But this, too, proved unlike his expectations. Heppner, after
his fashion, kept him hard at it. Like every recruit, he had to begin
with riding bareback; then after a time came the more difficult task of
balancing on the slippery saddle without stirrups; and only after
considerable practice would the sergeant-major occasionally allow him
to let the stirrups down. There were days on which he had more than
twenty falls from his horse; and at last it was always in fear and
trembling that he went to riding instruction. Whenever his horse dashed
away riderless after a jump, Frielinghausen rejoiced in the few
minutes' respite that shortened by that much the hour of his lesson. He
could never manage to go over a hurdle with his hands placed on his
hips; at every jump they snatched at the horse's mane. Heppner raged
over this cowardice; but storm and shout as he would, Frielinghausen's
hands were for ever clutching at his only means of safety.
At last the sergeant-major left the long-limbed youth alone in his
incompetence. He had an impression that Wegstetten wished to hear good
of the bombardier, and after all, in the fire-workers, it would not be
necessary for Frielinghausen to be a proficient at riding. But the less
Frielinghausen knew about horses the more he boasted of his
acquirements, when once the riding instruction had come to an end.
As soon as he was made bombardier he was removed from Room IX. to the
non-commissioned officers' quarters.
Wegstetten thought to do his _protégé_ a favour by this; but
Frielinghausen felt no happier in his new surroundings than in the
company of the recruits. The mental atmosphere was hardly more
enlightened than that of his former room-mates. The service, horses,
and women: these were the chief subjects of conversation. They all
appeared to be great riders before the Lord, though had Heppner been
questioned in the matter he might have expressed a contrary opinion;
but every mounted non-com, thinks it necessary to be a bit of a
Munchausen. He would far rather be called a blockhead than be told he
cannot ride. Though, of course, Frielinghausen contributed his mite to
such conversations, on the whole he felt very much in doubt which he
preferred: the narrow interests of the common soldiers in Room IX., or
the well-meant rough good nature of the non-commissioned officers. He
rather inclined to Room IX.
All this was changed when the non-commissioned officers' room received
a new inmate, the one-year volunteer Trautvetter.
Captain von Wegstetten fully intended that his one-year volunteers,
like his whole battery, should be distinguished above all the others in
the regiment. If they behaved well he was most charming to them; if
not, then he was all the more strict, because he considered them young
people whose superior education laid them under the greater
obligations.
All his labour had been in vain with Trautvetter. The one year
volunteer was a ne'er-do-weel, a drunkard, a debauchee, and a useless
fool on duty into the bargain. And he had command of considerable
supplies of money, which, being an orphan and of age, he could spend as
he pleased.
All means had failed with him: punishment drill, being reported,
deprivation of leave, and being put under arrest. So at last Wegstetten
decided to send him to live in barracks.
Trautvetter, a bull-necked, square-shouldered man, with a broad chest,
took this punishment with great equanimity. He arranged his belongings
complacently in his locker and looked calmly round the bare room. His
little eyes had a bleary look of perpetual drunkenness, which obscured
the hearty, good-humoured expression really natural to them.
It was all one to him where he lived: was there not beer in the
canteen? and if one paid for it the canteen-keeper, despite the
prohibition, would let one have a case of bottled ale. The non-coms, of
course would drink with him; then they would all be a pleasant company
together.
He was right in his calculations: none of them could withstand the good
cigars and drinks which he distributed freely. Even the sergeant-major
took to joining them; such a chance was not to be let slip. But the
deputy sergeant-major, Heimert, kept his distance; he was occupied with
preparing for his approaching marriage. And Sergeant Wiegandt preferred
walking with his sweetheart Frieda in the quiet evenings.
A special relation soon established itself between Frielinghausen and
the one-year volunteer. Trautvetter had been a couple of terms at
Breslau, and the education they had both received gave them something
in common.
Frielinghausen had a good time now. Trautvetter paid for him and let
him take part in his amusements and pleasures. It even seemed as though
Trautvetter had some honourable feeling towards the young baron, for he
sternly refused ever to let him join in the gambling with which the
drinking-bouts soon came to be enlivened.
The one-year volunteer had his reasons for this. His luck remained
faithful to him with almost puzzling persistency. His little swimming
eyes seemed to hypnotise the dealer when they were playing cards, and
his big fat hands had nothing to do but to rake in the winnings.
He had not the least scruple in taking money from the sergeant-major
and Trumpeter-sergeant Henke, who were usually his adversaries--why
else did the fellows play with him? but he did not like winning from
Frielinghausen.
When the two non-commissioned officers had lost all their money,
Trautvetter had no objection to lending, and let them give him
notes-of-hand, which at last amounted to very considerable sums.
He had not, indeed, any real intention of claiming repayment; but these
I.O.U.'s were very useful weapons in his hand, and it was not long
before the sergeant-major had to dance to his piping.
Every night when an inspection was not expected, Trautvetter and
Heppner would slip out of barracks. As soon as the sentinel had gone
round the corner, they would creep out of the window, and make off to a
neighbouring tavern, where gambling and drinking went on into the early
morning hours.
Heppner ground his teeth as he bowed beneath this uneasy yoke; but
there was no help for him. He already owed Trautvetter more than a
thousand marks; and the one-year volunteer now became less willing to
lend, and caused the sergeant-major endless vexation and trouble. He
would suddenly demand to be made corporal, or to be given a couple of
weeks' leave: demands which it was quite impossible to grant. But if
Heppner pointed this out to him, he would flourish the notes-of-hand
under the sergeant-major's nose and threaten to lay them before
Wegstetten.
Heppner could think of no other way of escape than the chance of a
sudden stroke of luck. Of course, however, he needed money in order to
go on playing. He himself had no more, and nobody would lend to him.
At last he fell back on the cash-box of the battery. From time to time
he replaced a portion of what he had taken, but the deficit
nevertheless became greater and greater.
One morning, in the beginning of August, Wegstetten said to
him: "Sergeant Heppner, have the one-year volunteers paid their
board-money?"
"Yes, sir."
"All right. Then get your cash-box ready for settling up accounts. I am
just going over to headquarters, and you can have the money and the
books for me when I return."
Heppner hardly had the strength to reply with the usual "Very good,
sir."
More than a hundred marks was missing from the box. Time pressed;
Wegstetten might be back again in half an hour.
He went to find Heimert. Heimert was no friend to him, he knew; but he
had always been a good comrade.
The deputy sergeant-major was away at the big parade-ground with the
pioneers. That was half-an-hour's distance.
Trautvetter, where was Trautvetter?
At last he discovered him in the canteen.
"Trautvetter, you must lend me a hundred marks!" said the
sergeant-major breathlessly.
"Must?" asked the one-year volunteer sarcastically. "Must? Not if I
know it!"
Heppner had dragged him out of the canteen into the empty vestibule.
"Yes, yes, you must, Trautvetter!" he repeated.
Trautvetter now perceived the disturbed mien of the sergeant-major.
Something very particular must have happened, that was clear; and in
such case he could not refuse to help. For it was no part of his plan
to push this man to extremity.
"What's up?" he asked.
Heppner murmured, with some confusion: "Settling up accounts, all of a
sudden--there is some money missing; of course I had meant to replace
it."
Trautvetter understood, and was beginning to pull out his purse, but he
suddenly hesitated.
"Why, I have got no money left!" he cried in dismay. "Must it be at
once? To-morrow afternoon you can have as much as you want."
"No, no, at once! Wegstetten has only just gone over to headquarters
for a minute."
"Damnation! What are we to do?"
The sergeant-major believed Trautvetter was doing this on purpose. He
became more insistent, and implored: "Trautvetter, for heaven's sake
help me just for once! I beg of you! I beg of you! lend me the money!"
With a shrug the volunteer held out his open purse. There were only a
few silver pieces in it.
"You can see for yourself, Herr Heppner," he said. "I am not the sort
of fellow to leave you in the lurch like that."
But Heppner could not yet believe him. He begged and threatened. At
last the great big fellow threw himself on the ground and clung round
Trautvetter's knees: "Just this once, just this once!"
The volunteer pushed him roughly away. The sight of the blubbering
giant revolted him.
"Stand up, Heppner!" he insisted. "All this is no good. I would give
you the money, but God knows I have none at the moment. Let us consider
how we can get out of this."
The sergeant-major stood up again, and looked at him in suspense.
Suddenly Trautvetter pointed to the canteen: "He must lend us
something," he whispered.
But the canteen-keeper objected to this. Even when Trautvetter offered
him ten, twenty marks for the loan, he remained obstinate.
The volunteer struck the counter furiously.
"Pig-headed fool!" he cried. "Will you do it for fifty?"
The canteen-keeper hesitated. He had settled up the day before; there
was not much risk for him, and fifty marks----!
"Give me your note-of-hand," he demanded,
And Trautvetter wrote him an I.O.U. for one hundred and fifty marks.
Heppner took the money, and when Wegstetten came into the orderly-room
he found the sergeant-major counting over his cash.
This event made a powerful impression on the one-year volunteer. From
the moment when Heppner had lain grovelling on the ground before
him a thorough change came over Trautvetter. The whole scene had
been unspeakably revolting to him; he was seized with a grim horror
on his own account too. Half unconsciously the sight of the big
imposing-looking man clamouring and petitioning on his knees made
Trautvetter suddenly realise how near he himself stood to a similar
degradation.
The next morning he gave the sergeant-major back his notes-of-hand.
Heppner coloured. "Why is this?" he asked. "Perhaps I shall be able to
pay them up."
But Trautvetter answered quietly, "No, never mind! I only won the money
from you in play, and gambling debts are not legally reclaimable. I
ought never to have lent you the money in the first place." Then
suddenly Trautvetter assumed a severely respectful manner, and added,
"I should like to ask you something, sir; and that is that you would
promise me never to play again."
Heppner looked at him, astonished. Was all this irksome dependence on
one of his subordinates, this degradation before the whole battery,
really to come to an end? He could scarcely believe that any one could
be so generous. But he could see that the one-year volunteer was in
earnest, not simply making fun of him.
"Yes, I promise you, Trautvetter," he said firmly. "I will not play any
more."
And for the moment he meant what he said; he felt that this was the
right minute for making good resolutions and turning over a new leaf.
Some days later Wegstetten asked him: "How is the one-year volunteer
Trautvetter behaving? I have been quite pleased with him on duty these
last few days."
And Heppner answered: "He has been much more steady, sir; there has
been no fault to find with him."
The commander of the battery nodded, well pleased.
"You see, sergeant," he said, "my plan has been a success. I think we
will let him out of barracks again. You can tell him so."
Trautvetter had also returned all his notes-of-hand to his other
debtor, Trumpeter-sergeant Henke.
The cornet-player did not feel constrained to any special feeling of
gratitude for this. He had never had the smallest intention of repaying
the money, some hedge-lawyer having advised him of the fact that
gambling debts were not legally recoverable.
Why therefore should he be grateful?
Lisbeth, on the contrary, his pretty fair-haired wife, was profoundly
touched by Trautvetter's generosity.
"Dear, dear!" she sighed, "what a kind good man that volunteer must be,
to give away such a lot of money!"
The trumpeter laughed at her: "Silly goose!" he said, "haven't I told
you that they were gambling debts, and he could never have claimed
them?"
"Well," remarked Lisbeth, "there were others too. Your new uniform was
bought with the borrowed money, your beautiful patent leather shoes
too, and half-a-dozen pairs of white gloves."
Her husband did not care to remember this: "Hold your tongue!" he
growled; but his pretty wife insisted: "No, no, he must be a good kind
man!"
"A drunken fat pig, that's what he is!" said Henke. "You can see that
at a glance."
"That's as may be," replied Lisbeth calmly; and she proceeded to set
forth to her wondering husband a plan she had conceived for increasing
the financial resources of the household.
She would do fine washing and ironing for the one-year volunteers; and
he, Henke, should arrange it with them.
Henceforth the young wife spent her days over the wash-tub and the
ironing-board. She found plenty to do; for the young men liked to have
their things brought home by a lovely little person like the
trumpeter's wife, in her neat fresh attire.
A special friendship soon established itself between her and
Trautvetter. She looked upon the plump volunteer as a good-natured
person, who did not, at any rate now, show any of the evil
characteristics imputed to him by her husband. He looked rather
embarrassed when she thanked him heartily for giving back the
notes-of-hand; and as he was acquainted with her husband's weaknesses
it came to pass that they often talked about Henke. The woman felt a
need of speaking out to some one about her husband, and Trautvetter
gave her the best advice he could.
The young woman pleased him with her industrious, intelligent ways.
Formerly he would probably have thoughtlessly tried to seduce her; but
now he felt an involuntary respect for her diligent activity, and her
love for her husband impressed him.
The trumpeter soon became aware that his wife had a certain influence
over the one-year volunteer, and he immediately used this discovery to
make Lisbeth a means of obtaining further small loans of money.
Lisbeth was ashamed of the deception this entailed upon her; she always
refused to undertake the commission, but on each occasion Henke managed
to prevail upon her to do so. Then when she brought him the money he
would laugh sarcastically. It was capital to have a pretty wife who
could manage things so nicely. He had no need even to be jealous; she
was helplessly in love with himself!
But in the course of time his wife's eyes were opened. She learnt to
examine her husband more closely, and saw through him more clearly
every day. How blind she had been! Now that her perceptions were
sharpened her fondness suddenly disappeared, and nothing remained but a
dim feeling of duty towards him. She would at any rate make good the
wrong she had done to Trautvetter in her foolish adoration for her
husband, and would not conceal the truth from the one-year volunteer.
She said nothing about a new request for money with which Henke had
charged her, but confessed to him instead that all he had already given
her for housekeeping and such-like had been appropriated by her
husband, who had used it to buy himself a gold watch-chain, an extra
sword, and silver spurs.
Trautvetter looked down upon her fair head. She had hung down her
blushing face and would not look up at him.
"I thought as much," he said.
Without raising her eyes she asked: "Then why did you do it?"
Trautvetter hesitated a moment, then he said gently: "I thought I was
doing you a pleasure, Frau Lisbeth."
The young woman looked him full in the face for an instant. Then she
stood up quickly, took her washing-basket, and departed.
Henke had been awaiting her at home anxiously. He had just engaged in a
love-affair with a music-hall singer, who had been entertaining the
country people of the neighbourhood with her ditties during the August
cattle-market season. "Countess Miramara" was a great success on the
boards, for her costume reached upwards and downwards only just as far
as was absolutely necessary; but she repelled the advances of the
farmers, though they jingled persuasively the coin they had received in
exchange for their oxen and pigs. She preferred to distinguish with her
favour the handsome black-bearded trumpeter.
Henke now wanted to show himself a gallant lover. He intended to
present the countess with a bracelet.
"Give me the money!" he cried to Lisbeth when she entered.
"I have none," she replied. "Trautvetter won't give me any more."
Henke tugged at his beard. This was a fatal upset to his calculations.
What would the countess say if he broke his promise?
He began quietly; "Oh, yes, he'll give you some! You must just be a bit
nice to him."
Lisbeth looked surprised. "What do you mean?" she said.
"Well, you women can always manage a man if you only want to, don't you
see? Just be really nice to him. It's all the same to me." And he left
the room, much put out.
His pretty wife shook her head thoughtfully. What had he meant by "a
bit nice"?
Going into the town on an errand she met the one-year volunteer. They
walked part of the way together. Lisbeth had forgotten her
embarrassment, and chattered away gaily.
Suddenly she remembered her husband's incomprehensible words, and she
began, smilingly; "Do you know, Herr Trautvetter, what my husband has
just been saying to me, that I was to be really nice to you. Have I not
been nice then?"
"What did he mean by that?" Trautvetter asked sharply.
"Well," she laughed, "I ought to have taken back some more money
to-day. But I never mean to do that again. And then he said that if I
were only really nice to you, you would give me lots of money."
She started, so violently had the man struck his sword upon the ground,
and he looked at her quite red and angry.
"Just like the low brute!" he cried.
"What! What do you mean?"
Trautvetter could not contain his wrath. He blurted out: "Don't you
know, Frau Lisbeth, what he meant?--that you should take me for a
lover!"
She met his glance with a straight look; then she hung her head, and
walked dumbly beside him.
"I will go back," she said suddenly.
He took her hand and begged: "Forgive me, Frau Lisbeth! please!"
She nodded silently and turned back on the road they had just
traversed.
In her little sitting-room she sank limply into a chair. The windows
were wide open; she heard the rippling of the brook, and the insects
humming and buzzing in the big willow. At last she roused herself. She
must be certain if Trautvetter was right in his suspicion, and that
would need cunning. Her plan was soon made; it was very simple: she
need only behave as if she had been following her husband's hint, then
he would have to declare himself.
"Henke," she began that evening, "Trautvetter has made a proposal
to-day. As soon as he has finished his service he is going to buy a
place in the country, far away from here, and he wants me to keep house
for him. If you agree, then you shall have a hundred marks a month."
Henke was silent for a time; he was in some doubt what he should say to
this. Lisbeth was so queer and cold, almost uncanny; but on the other
hand she did not seem to be the least annoyed.
In a tone of would-be resignation he said at last: "Well, Lisbeth, if
you don't love me any more, if you think it's for your happiness, and
you like to leave me----" he stopped.
His wife was suddenly standing before him, deathly pale. She shook her
trembling clasped hands in his face, and spat contemptuously on the
boards in front of him. Then she fled from the room.
He looked after her stupefied.
"So she's gone!" he muttered. Well, it was no use being too tragic over
it. Either Lisbeth would be reasonable again, or----he was free of her.
There was a third possibility.
Countess Miramara had assured him that he could make an enormous
fortune if he would go on the stage as a cornet-player. To-morrow she
was going off to Bohemia. Suppose he were to join her? He did not
trouble himself about desertion: he had got his papers all right, and
desertion was not a crime for which one could be extradited. Austria
was a big place and a merry; so the countess asserted. And there was
Hungary too.
Really that would be the best thing to do.
Next day Henke was over the border. He had already converted all his
property into gold, and only took his trumpet with him. In place of his
artilleryman's coat he wore a gorgeous fancy uniform, which showed off
to the best advantage the excellences of his person. Evening after
evening he performed his most admired pieces.
And he became a favourite with all the ladies.
Frau Lisbeth, however, obtained the dissolution of her marriage on the
ground of malicious desertion.
At first she thought of furnishing a little shop in the town and
setting up a laundry; but Trautvetter begged her rather to go into
service for a time.
"Why?" asked she.
He found some difficulty in answering her. At last he came out with:
"I am very fond of you, Frau Lisbeth; and if you could make up your
mind to it I should like to ask you if you would have me."
Lisbeth smiled a little, and then said, "You may ask me that now!"
Her voice sounded honest and friendly.
Trautvetter took her hand in his and said: "Then that's all right!"
But she continued gaily and cheerfully: "Besides, in any case, I should
have ended by being your mistress."
"Oh, no!" said Trautvetter. "Under certain circumstances I prefer a
wife."
Despite the warmth of the August sun, Julie Heppner grew worse day by
day; but this was nothing to her in comparison with the burden of
mental suffering which almost overwhelmed her.
She watched her husband and sister with a gaze that never faltered. She
saw with horror how Ida became less shy of her and abandoned herself
more and more to her passion. Nor was this hidden from her husband. He
noticed with cynical satisfaction how the young girl's power of
resistance diminished. The desired fruit must soon fall into his hands
almost of itself.
Soon, under cover of the playful teasing which went on between the
sergeant-major and his sister-in-law, even in the presence of the
invalid wife, he began to indulge in passionate, lustful touches and
covert embraces which brought the blood to the girl's face and made her
shiver.
She resented Julie's reproaches with the hard, insensitive egoism of
one in love. What! Did this wretched moribund creature still think to
claim the man whom she, the fresh, young girl, loved, and who loved her
in return?
Julie laughed bitterly to herself. Would it not be best to resign
herself to it, to close her eyes, and to await the deliverance of
Death?
Oh, no! She could not endure this shameless insult which they both, as
it were, hurled in her face. She racked her brain as to how she could
revenge herself on them; but in vain. Most terrible of all was it to
feel that though still alive she was virtually dead already, as
powerless and helpless as a corpse!
Then the worst happened.
The sergeant-major and his sister-in-law were invited to a _fête_ which
the military society, "The Fellow-Soldiers of 1870-1," were arranging
in memory of the battle of St. Privat.
The programme included music, theatricals, and dancing. Towards
evening a fanfare of trumpets summoned the guests to the festival-play.
Even in the garden under the lime-trees the heat of the summer sun had
been great, and in the confined space of the overcrowded hall it became
unbearably intense. The rows of chairs were placed much too close
together, in order to accommodate the large audience. Once seated,
it was impossible to move; one remained wedged in between one's
neighbours.
Shortly before the curtain was raised, Heppner and Ida discovered two
empty chairs. The sergeant-major sat down first. The narrow space
then left on the neighbouring chair was far too small for the girl's
fully-developed hips.
Consequently his sister-in-law was almost sitting on his knee. He felt
the warmth of her blood and her firm limbs through her thin cotton
skirt. They were pressed close to one another in the darkened room.
Drops of sweat gathered on their brows, and their breath came gaspingly
and with difficulty. But, as if by mutual consent, they did not move a
limb. They were hearing nothing but the voice of their blood, and in
the close contact they could distinctly feel the pulse-beats.
Neither of them took in a word of the play which was being performed on
the stage.
At last the singing of the National Anthem announced the end of the
piece. The spectators breathed sighs of relief and pushed patiently and
slowly through the narrow doors out into the evening air of the garden,
wiping and fanning their hot faces with their handkerchiefs.
Ida looked pale, and sank down exhausted on a chair. "I would rather go
home," she said.
"Why not?" he agreed, and held out her jacket for her to put on. But
the girl took it from his hand and hung it over her arm. A rush as of
fire streamed through her body, making her skin prick and tingle.
Walking silently side by side they left the restaurant garden.
A house stood half-way up the hill, whence two roads led to the
barracks: the high-road down through the valley, and a footpath which
led to the little wood at the back of the barracks, and then went on
further. Heppner chose the footpath.
The evening had not brought coolness. The leaves hung motionless on the
branches. The twilight began to give way to night. The girl felt the
tepid breeze like a warm bath on her bare neck and arms.
At the edge of the little wood the pair turned and looked back. The
lights of the garden gleamed through the darkness. The noise of the
merry-making was hardly audible; only a trumpet and the rumble of a
double bass, marking the dance measure, could be heard distinctly.
In the shadow of the trees Heppner put his arm round his
sister-in-law's shoulders. She shrank slightly, and shuddered as if at
a touch of frost. Pressed closely to each other they walked on slowly,
and still in silence. The man's hot hand weighed heavily on the woman's
shoulder; his throat was parched; his arms were as if paralysed; he
could not turn his head and look her in the face.
They had reached the end of the wood. Fields stretched away on both
sides of the path; the darkness of night surrounded them.
In the valley a train was passing. A cloud of sparks streamed from the
funnel of the engine; on the dark ground the windows of the lighted
carriages threw illuminated squares, which flashed along beside the
train and vanished with it in the dim distance of the night. Not a
glimmer remained to show the trail of man.
Suddenly the girl stood still, and with a wrench freed her self from
the man's arm. She gave a stifled cry, like the wail of one vanquished
after a hard struggle--then flung herself on his breast.
After a night of terrifying visions and dreams Julie Heppner had become
quieter. She fought against the belief that her horrible suspicions
could have become truth. It was too monstrous; they could not have been
brutal enough to inflict this last injury on her as she lay dying!
But her doubts became certainties as she observed the altered demeanour
of her husband and sister. The restless yearning had vanished. They
were more at ease; there was a complete understanding between them; and
their glances no longer desired and hungered, but rather told of a
happiness already tasted.
From this time the invalid's mind was filled with schemes of vengeance,
and she gradually conceived a mad determination to kill the guilty
pair. She felt that she had no time to lose. Her life was nearly spent.
She could now only take a few tottering steps; and increasing weakness
would soon prevent her leaving her bed.
From under her eyelids she watched the girl's every movement. Oh, how
she hated her, this healthy, blooming creature, with her splendid
stature, her round white arms, and her magnificent bust! How she hated
her! Her freshness, her youth, her beauty, her soft young body with
which she had seduced the man, which he had caressed!
And Ida never suspected that vengeance was imminent, that death was
near her--nearer even than to the dying woman herself!
The sands ran unceasingly through the hour-glass of the nearly expiring
life. Constant and violent attacks of coughing kept the invalid from
sleep, until the staff-surgeon prescribed morphia for her in fairly
large doses. The poor woman was near death; why should not her last
days be lightened, her last sufferings relieved? He cautioned the
sergeant-major as to the danger of the drug, warning him to be careful
in pouring out the doses.
Julie did not know how to praise the staff-surgeon enough; the rest was
such a wonderful refreshment. True that on awaking her limbs felt
rather heavy; but at the same time she felt the strengthening effect of
the long undisturbed night's sleep. Sometimes she even thought she
might begin to hope again; and when she felt particularly well she
regained a faint desire for life. That would indeed be the most perfect
vengeance, if she could live to spite them both, perhaps for years!
Then her illness once more overcame her; she despaired anew, and hourly
planned revenge.
One morning, as she lay on her bed in a kind of stupor, she tried to
recall the events of the night. Something had happened which she had
seen vaguely through the veil of her torpor. Despite her drowsiness,
she had been frightened, horrified by it; yet afterwards the incident
had vanished from her memory, and now she was endeavouring to bring
back the faint trace into consciousness.
It was just before she had fallen completely asleep, when her senses
were becoming dulled, and the final action of the morphia was about to
set in, that a slight cough had brought her back from the void,
partially arousing her. While in this condition she had perceived that
Otto, her husband, had softly raised himself in bed. Sitting up he had
listened awhile, then had crept cautiously towards her, and had
remained standing by her bed for a long time.
Now she remembered: she had been horribly afraid that he would do her
some injury; that with his big strong hands he would take her by the
throat and strangle her. She was far too weak to resist him; indeed,
she had felt that she had not even the strength to cry out. But nothing
of this had happened. He had only stood there motionless by her
bedside, looking into her face. She had felt his gaze through eyelids
that had closed with fatigue. Then she had gradually sunk into sleep;
and just at the very last she fancied she had been aware that her
husband was moving away from her bed.
She pressed her hands to her brow as if to prevent the thoughts from
escaping. She closed her eyes and forced herself to live again through
the events of the night. At last they came back to her, and the memory
struck her like a stinging lash, so that she cowered on her bed,
clutching the coverlet with her hands, and biting her handkerchief to
keep herself from shrieking with horror and hatred.
When he left her side her husband had turned towards the door--towards
the door beyond which her sister slept. And thus it was that the
shameless pair took advantage of that sleep for which she, poor
invalid, had been so thankful! Even this relief, this wretched remnant
of happiness, they embittered for her!
Never again should the healing, sleep-giving drug cross her lips, to
give the opportunity for such abominations! Never! Not if it cost her
her life! For that life was no longer worth having.
But stay! She would dissemble; would appear to take the drug and then
pretend to go to sleep, in order to gain a chance of revenging herself
on the adulterers how, she did not know; but it must be soon. In two
days the regiment would be off to the autumn man[oe]uvres, and by that
time her vengeance must be consummated; she felt her strength would not
last much longer.
On the following morning there was much work and bustle going forward
in the battery, as early the next day they were to start for the
man[oe]uvres. The sergeant-major had barely time to throw together the
few things that he intended to take with him.
"Ida," he shouted through the door, "cut some bread and butter for my
breakfast, and send it over to me in the orderly-room."
Julie was as usual on the sofa, which was pushed close up to the table.
Her sister was sitting doing some needlework.
Rather annoyed at the interruption Ida got up, and fetched bread and
butter out of the kitchen. With a large bread-knife she cut two slices,
buttered them, and carried them off.
The bread and the knife had been left lying close to the edge of the
table. The knife swayed a moment on the round crust, then it slipped
slowly off the loaf, and fell flat upon the rug in which the invalid
was wrapped.
At first Julie let it lie there unnoticed; Ida could take it away when
she returned. Suddenly, however, an inspiration, as it were, flashed
through her mind. It was fate that this knife should have fallen on her
sofa; it was to be the instrument of her revenge! She took it quickly
in her blanched hand and examined it. It had a sharp, pointed blade,
fit to go through flesh and bone; it seemed to have been freshly
sharpened. She felt the edge, and in so doing cut her finger slightly.
A few drops of blood spurted on to the shining steel, and near them
were the marks left by the bread which it had cut. Julie felt as though
she could not take her eyes off the blade.
But she heard the outer door close, and swiftly hid the knife under her
coverings.
Ida came in, and began to get her own breakfast. She looked about the
table.
"Have you the bread-knife, Julie?" she asked. "It was certainly here."
The invalid answered sullenly: "I?--No."
"Didn't you see it lying here, Julie?" Ida asked again. "Just here on
the bread?"
"No," replied the invalid, "It wasn't there. I should have seen it if
it had been. Perhaps you took it with you to the orderly-room by
mistake."
"Perhaps I did," said Ida; and in the afternoon she asked her
brother-in-law: "Otto, can you tell me whether I left the bread-knife
lying in the orderly-room this morning?"
The sergeant-major answered: "Perhaps so. I'll see." After which
nothing more was said about the missing knife.
Julie Heppner felt strangely strong and well as she held the formidable
weapon in her hand. Now at last the hour had come in which she would be
revenged for years of suffering, and for the accumulated disgrace of
her married life. And she regarded her husband and sister with
triumphant glances, as two victims who must fall under her hand without
chance of escape.
There was so much to pack up and arrange during the evening that no one
thought of giving the invalid her morphia.
"Otto, will you give me the medicine?" she requested at last. "I can
prepare it for myself."
The sergeant-major started, and glanced at his sister-in-law, smiling
cynically. The devil! In all this silly excitement they might have
sacrificed the last night before their long separation, if the very
person they were deceiving had not herself come to the rescue.
Ida smiled back at him.
He gave the bottle and a spoon to his wife with a "Mind you don't take
too much." But he thought to himself, "Perhaps she will take a little
more than is ordered, and so sleep the sounder."
Then he went back to his sister-in-law and the packing.
"There!" said Julie, as she held out the spoon. "I believe I did take
just a little more than usual. Ida, will you help me to bed? I begin to
feel tired already!"
Just then it struck ten o'clock. The tattoo sounded.
"So late already?" exclaimed the sergeant-major. "I must be off at once
with this to the baggage-waggon."
He took up his box and turned to go. In the doorway he paused once more
and said, "I shall only just go through the battery and then come back
to bed, for I must be up betimes in the morning."
The sick woman lay waiting. She had taken the knife with her into the
bedroom hidden under her shawl, and now held it grasped convulsively in
her hand.
Close by in the sitting-room her sister was bustling about. The door
had remained half open, so that her movements and occupations could be
plainly perceived from the bedroom. At last she undressed herself
hurriedly, as if forced to hasten.
Through the half opened door she called softly into the dark bedroom,
"Julie, are you asleep?"
Then again, louder and more insistently, "Julie, are you asleep?"
She stood listening awhile at the door, and then got into bed. The door
was still open and the sick woman heard how restlessly she tossed
about.
An hour later the sergeant-major opened the outer door. He took his
spurred boots off in the corridor, and slipped cautiously into the
bedroom.
Once more came a whispered, "Julie, are you asleep?" and the woman felt
as if she could have laughed aloud at the fools who let themselves be
thus led by the nose.
Heppner stripped his uniform off rapidly. Then he moved again to the
side of her bed and listened--as on that other night.
The invalid lay motionless.
The deceived wife suffered the tortures of the damned; and it seemed to
her that her agony must be as eternal as hell itself. She clutched so
hard at the knife-handle that her nails were driven into her flesh, and
she bit her lips until they bled to keep herself from shrieking with
frenzy. A thousand times she thought that morning must be breaking; yet
still the shameless pair were together.
At last came an end to the horror.
The woman was asleep already when the man left her. She did not reply
to the farewell which he whispered to her from the door. Then he lay
down, breathing heavily, and in a moment had fallen into a deep sleep.
Julie waited a little while. Then she got up, her husband's snores and
heavy breathing drowning the slight noise of her movements. Now she was
standing with her bare feet on the boards. She had the knife in her
right hand.
Which of the two should she punish first?
She must kill them both, that was certain. But before she died that
shameless creature should know the truth. A flood of abusive words, the
most obscene and filthy she could conjure up, lay on her tongue. She
would shriek them into the ears of her dying victims, would shout for
joy, would exult over them! Oh, how she would triumph! After all the
shame, after all the sorrow, she would at last remain the conqueror!
She dragged herself along by the bed carefully. With trembling steps
she crossed the threshold and went into the sitting-room. The feeble
light of breaking day struggled in, just clearly enough to enable her
to distinguish things. The room looked dreary, clothing was strewn
about, the chairs were out of their places, and the remains of the
evening meal were still on the table. A moist heat pervaded this scene
of disorder. The suffocating air seemed laden with a sense of the
horrible, unnatural crime.
The sick woman staggered. There was a mist before her eyes. But with an
effort she pulled herself together and moved towards the bed.
Her sister was asleep, her face hidden by her loosened hair and pressed
into the pillow.
Suddenly she stirred, and as she stretched herself slowly the coverlet
fell rustling to the ground.
In the dim light her white skin gleamed.
The woman fixed her burning eyes on this beauty. Suddenly a mad smile
distorted her lips, and she raised the knife. She would plunge the
blade into her sister's adulterous bosom; and thus deal out justice,
measure for measure.
But there came a rush of blood to her throat that choked her. She
swayed, and grasped at the empty air with clutching fingers. The knife
slipped from her relaxing hand and clanged on the floor. The dying
woman collapsed with a dull thud.
The sleeping girl turned over lazily.
"Be quiet, Otto!" she murmured.
Suddenly she gave a shriek of horror, rushed into the bedroom, and
shook the man, who could hardly be aroused from his sleep.
He followed her, still half dazed.
Julie Heppner lay dead, bathed in her own blood.
The husband and sister gazed at her horror-stricken, and shuddered as
they saw the knife lie gleaming near the corpse.
Death had passed over them.
Outside the trumpeter on duty blew the joyful fanfare of the
reveille:--
[Illustration: Reveille]