ANDREA GOES AN ERRAND
“Christine had left Jézero exactly eighteen months before it was given
to me to see her again, excellency. Think not that I had put her from
my mind. Far from it. She was to me then, as ever, a daughter to be
beloved. Could my hand have helped her, it had been raised to her
assistance every hour of my life. But God had willed it otherwise. I
knew not even in what city she had made her home. I was welcome no
longer at the house of Count Paul. The priest did not answer my letter
when I reminded him of the services I had rendered. Strange tales came
to me upon the lips of gossipers. I heard that the château at Jézero
was now like a tomb of the living. They told me that the Lord Count
himself went to Vienna no more. They spoke of decay and desolation, of
solitude and silence; of a master who shewed his trouble to none, and
yet was troubled that he must hide it. They said that the shadow of a
great solitude had come upon the house--and all for lack of a child’s
pretty face.
“I heard these things, but it was many months before I saw them for
myself. Two summers had passed when the message came--a letter from
Father Mark bidding me go to Jézero. So quick was I to answer that I
rode up to the great house three days after the summons reached me,
and found myself immediately in the presence of the priest. He told me
that the Count had been called to the autumn manœuvres at Brod; and the
opportunity being welcome to him, he had sent for me at once to discuss
a matter of much moment to us both.
“‘Few things have happened here, Signor Andrea,’ he said, ‘since the
day you left us. I wish it were otherwise. You see for yourself what a
state we are in--the rooms half-painted, as they were on the day the
child left us; the gardens running to weed; half the servants sent
about their business. He will do nothing and have nothing done. He sees
no one. He is never out of his study except when his work calls him----’
“‘And he never asks for news of her?’
“‘Her name has never passed his lips but once since she left him.
That was six months ago, when I told myself that he was beginning to
forget. He said it quite suddenly when we were talking of his sister
at Vienna. “She will send to me when she has need of me,” he said. I
thought at first that he spoke of my lady; but he was thinking of the
little one. And he will think always. The majority of men have never
loved a woman. Affection for them is a little spark of sympathy and
admiration and desire, which burns itself out in the first summer of
its gratification. We, in our own little way, tried to stand against
the love which was born of nature in the hearts of these two. We might
as well have tried to drain the Plevna with our buckets. Time has
taught me to look back upon those days with lasting regret. It is a
reproach to me that I sought to break in upon that sacred confidence--a
confidence which none should share. I would give half my years if the
shadow might pass from this house.’
“‘Father,’ said I, ‘there is one way, and one only, by which such
a thing might come to pass. It would be the death of Christine’s
husband.’
“‘Exactly--but how if he be dead already?’
“‘Holy Virgin!’ said I, ‘you think that?’
“‘I know not what to think. Three months ago I heard that the girl was
singing in Vienna at the Café des Trois Mousquetaires. They told me
other stories as well--of men that danced attendance at her heels and
fools who made much of her.’
“‘It is a lie!’ cried I, so loudly that he started back from me, ‘a
lie, I call my God to witness! There is no purer woman in Austria. Show
me the man that told the tale and I will strike him on the mouth!’
“‘Come,’ said he, ‘this is no time for the display of such boasts as
these. Had you been so very anxious, my friend, necessity would have
found some way of bringing you to Vienna before this.’
“‘Nay,’ said I; ‘the Lord be my judge if I have had the money. Was it
to hear this that you sent for me to Sebenico? Oh, surely, I did well
to leave my business!’
“‘Not so fast, Signor Andrea. I am not the man to summon you here upon
a fool’s errand. And I make sure that you will be very content when you
have heard me out.’
“I bowed my head at this, and was the more pleased, excellency, since
my affairs at Sebenico had gone ill with me for some time past. ‘This
priest,’ I said, ‘does not forget that I am an old man, and that
poverty is a good friend of mine. If he has need of me, surely he will
remember my right to a poor man’s wage.’
“‘Father,’ said I, ‘what service I can give shall be given from my
heart for love of little Christine. It will fall heavily upon me to
leave my business now, at this busy time, when----’
“‘I have thought of that,’ said he, ‘and have made provision against
it. Here are notes for five hundred guldens. With this sum you will
set out at once for Vienna, and there you will learn all that is to be
known of Christine. Good or ill, you will keep nothing from me. They
tell me that her husband was with her daily until this last month, but
that he has now disappeared from the city, and there is no news of him.
Go, then, and learn what you can of this. You will lose nothing by the
journey. And if you can bring me intelligence of the man’s death, I
promise you that you shall return to Sebenico no more.’
“‘Gladly will I go,’ cried I, ‘and the saints be my witness that no
thought of myself shall find me loitering on the way. Blessed be God
that I am to see my child again!’
“The same night, excellency, I set out for Travnik. In two days I was
in Vienna.”