A short time after, the Emperor Charles, accompanied by the Queen of
Hungary and several lords and ladies, took a ride in the open air for
the first time after long seclusion.
According to his custom, he had spent Passion week in the monastery.
Easter had come on the latest day possible--the twenty-fifth of
April--and when he bade farewell to the monks the gout had already
attacked him again.
Now he rode forth into the open country and the green woods like a
rescued man; the younger Granvelle, long as he had been in his service,
had never seen him so gay and unconstrained. He could now understand his
father’s tales of his Majesty’s better days, his vigorous manly strength
and eager delight in existence.
True, the period of anxiety concerning the tidings of political affairs
which had arrived the day before and that morning appeared to be over,
for Herr von Parlowitz, the minister of Duke Maurice of Saxony, had
expressed his conviction that this active young monarch might be induced
to separate from the other Protestant princes and form an alliance
with the Emperor, especially as his Majesty had not the most distant
intention of mingling; religious matters in the war that was impending.
Despatches had also been sent from Valladolid by Don Philip, the
Emperor’s oldest son, which afforded the greatest satisfaction to
the sovereign. If war was waged against the Smalkalds, the allied
Protestants of Germany, Spain, which had been taught to regard the
campaign as a religious war, was ready to aid Charles with large
subsidies of money and men.
Lastly, it seemed as if two betrothals were to be made which promised to
sustain the Emperor’s statesmanship. Two of his nieces, the daughters of
his brother Ferdinand, expected to marry--one the heir to the Bavarian
throne, the other the Duke of Cleves.
Thus many pleasant things came to him simultaneously with his recovery,
and his mind, inclined to mysticism, received them as a sign that Heaven
was favourable to his late happiness in love.
Granvelle attributed the Emperor’s unexpectedly rapid convalescence and
the fortunate change which had taken place in his gloomy mood to the
favourable political news, and perhaps also to the music which, as a
zealous patron of art, he himself loved. He, who usually did not fail
to note even the veriest trifle when he desired to trace the motives
of events which were difficult to explain, now thought he need seek no
further for causes.
During the ride Barbara was not thought of, but in the Golden Cross it
was to become evident to the keen intelligence of the young master of
statecraft that something extremely important might escape even his
penetration.
While waiting with Malfalconnet in the reception room of the monarch,
who had gone into his chamber, for Charles’s return, and summing up
to the baron in a most charming way the causes which had effected the
wonderful rejuvenation of his Majesty, the other showed him that he,
Granvelle, had been short-sighted enough to overlook the most powerful
influence.
This would have been vexatious to the statesman had not his mind been
wholly occupied in considering how this unexpected event could be made
most profitable to himself, and also to his master, whom he served with
loyal devotion.
Malfalconnet had received no confidence either from the Emperor or any
male member of the court, yet he knew all, for, though the Marquise
de Leria well deserved the reputation of secrecy, she did not keep her
tongue sufficiently in check while talking with her gay countryman. What
she overheard, he succeeded by his amiable wiles in learning, and this
time also he had not failed.
Soon after the Emperor had appeared again audience was given to several
ambassadors. Then Chamberlain de Praet announced Captain Blomberg.
The latter, clad in full armour, entered the apartment. Over the shining
coat of mail, which he himself had cleaned with the utmost care, he wore
a somewhat faded scarf, and his long battle sword hung at his left side.
He looked stately enough, and his grave, oldfashioned, but thoroughly
soldierly manners admirably suited the elderly warrior.
The Emperor Charles accosted the father of the woman he loved with the
same blunt friendliness that so easily won the hearts of the companions
in arms to whom he condescended.
Blomberg must tell him this thing and that, and the old man gazed into
his face with honest amazement and sincere delight when the monarch
supplied the names of places and persons which had escaped his own
feeble memory.
He accepted the praise of his daughter with a smile and the modest
remark: “She is certainly a dear, kind-hearted child; and as for her
voice, there were probably some to which people found less pleasure in
listening. But, your Majesty, that of the nightingale battering down
solid walls sounds still more beautiful to me.”
The Emperor knew that the German cannoneers gave their guns the name of
nightingale, and was pleased with the comparison.
But while he was still talking gaily with the old warrior, who had
really displayed truly leonine courage on many an occasion, Count Buren
brought in a new despatch, remarking, as he did so, that unfortunately
the bearer, a young Spanish noble, had been thrown from his horse just
outside the city, and was lying helpless with a broken leg.
Sincere compassion was expressed, in which the Bishop of Arras joined,
meanwhile glancing through the somewhat lengthy document.
It came from the heir and regent, Don Philip, in Valladolid. The prince
desired to know the state of the negotiations with Rome and with Duke
Maurice of Saxony.
After Granvelle had read the despatch he handed it to the monarch, and
the latter, in a low tone, charged him not yet to inform his son of the
fair prospects for an alliance with Maurice, but to send an answer at
once.
While the minister withdrew to the writing table, the Emperor asked
whether a trustworthy horseman could be had, since the Spaniard was
disabled; and Reitzenstein, Beust, and Van der Kapellen, in whom
implicit confidence could be placed, had been sent off that morning.
Then the Bishop of Arras again turned to the monarch, cast a significant
glance at Malfalconnet, and, pointing to Blomberg, eagerly exclaimed:
“If this valiant and faithful soldier still has a firm seat in the
saddle, this highly important message might be intrusted to him.”
The proposal affected the adventure-loving old man like music. With
youthful fire he protested that he could ride a horse as fast and endure
fatigue as long as the youngest man, even though the goal were the end
of the world.
Such an exertion, however, was by no means expected of him, for he
was to set sail at Flushing and land at Loredo in Spain. There
Postmaster-General de Tassis would furnish him with horses.
The Emperor had listened to this proposal from his counsellor with a
smile of satisfaction. His purpose was sufficiently obvious.
How thoroughly this young diplomat understood men! With how delicate a
scent he had again discovered a secret and removed a stone of offence
from his master’s path! He was competent to fill his clever father’s
place in every respect. It was evident that neither promises nor gifts
would have induced the old warrior to favour the tender wishes of his
imperial master. Now he himself hastened to leave the field clear,
and Granvelle had foreseen how he would receive the proposal.
Charles intentionally refrained from taking any personal share in the
arrangements with the old man which now followed. A communication from
Malfalconnet appeared to claim his whole attention, until the Bishop of
Arras announced that the captain had received his instructions and was
ready to set out for Flushing and Valladolid.
The monarch listened with a slight shake of the head, and expressed
his hesitation about intrusting so important a message to a man of
such advanced age; but Malfalconnet, in a tone of good-natured anxiety,
called to the captain, “One may be the father of a nightingale, my brave
hero, and yet miss the way to the south without a guide.”
“True, true,” the Emperor assented. “So we will give our gallant friend
a travelling companion who understands Castilian, and on whom we can
also rely. Besides, affairs of so much moment are better cared for
by two messengers than by one. What is the name of the cavalier,
Malfalconnet, who spoke to you of the friendship which unites him to
this brave old champion of the faith?”
“Wolf Hartschwert, your Majesty,” was the reply.
“The musician,” said the monarch, as if some memory was awakened in his
mind. “A modest fellow, whose reliability my sister praised.--And now,
my vigorous friend, a prosperous journey! Your daughter, whom the favour
of Heaven has so richly endowed with beautiful gifts, has found, I
have heard, a maternal guardian in the Marquise de Leria. We, too, will
gladly interest ourselves in the charming singer who affords us such
rare pleasure.”
As he spoke he showed his old companion in arms the unusual honour of
extending his hand to him, and when the latter, deeply moved by such
graciousness, ardently kissed it, he hurriedly withdrew it, saying, as
he kindly patted his arm, “You are doing us a greater service than you
imagine, Captain Blomberg.”
Then, wishing him a successful journey, he went to the writing table, on
which the secretary Gastelu had laid the newly received despatches.
Radiant with joy, the captain, making many profound bows, left the
apartment of the gracious monarch, for whom now he would really have
ridden to the world’s end.
On the stairs he was detained. Malfalconnet handed him two heavy rolls
of gold for the expenses of the journey, and enjoined it upon him to
be ready to set out early the following morning. He might make his own
arrangements with Sir Wolf Hartschwert, and assure him of his Majesty’s
gratitude in advance.
A short time after, Barbara was packing the gray-haired courier’s
knapsack.
She had never yet worked for her father with so much filial solicitude.
Everything that might be of use to him on the way was carefully
considered.
Though she had not been taken into his confidence, she knew the reason
that he had been selected to undertake this toilsome journey.
The Emperor Charles was sending the old man far away that the happiness
of her love might be undisturbed and unclouded, and the consciousness
weighed heavily upon her by no means unduly sensitive conscience.
Wolf, who was already unhappy on her account, had fared the same. When
her father told her that the knight was to accompany him, she had
felt as if an incident of her childhood, which had often disturbed her
dreams, was repeated.
She had been swinging with boyish recklessness in the Woller garden.
Suddenly one of the ropes broke, and the board which supported her feet
turned over out of her reach. For a time, clinging with her hands to the
uninjured rope, she swayed between heaven and earth. No one was near,
and, though she soon stood once more on the firm ground unhurt, the
moment when her feet, during the ascent, lost their support, was
associated with feelings of so much terror that she--who at that time
was considered the bravest of her playfellows--had never forgotten it.
Now she felt as though something similar had befallen her.
She had seen the props on which she might depend removed from under
her feet. If her father and Wolf left her, she would look in vain for
counsel and support.
That her lover was the most powerful sovereign on earth, and she could
appeal to him if she needed help, did not enter her mind. Nay, a vague
foreboding told her that he and what was associated with him formed the
power against which she must struggle.
The sham affection of the aristocratic lady who was to be her chaperon;
the Queen, who last evening had catechised her as if she were a child,
and whom she distrusted; the servile flatterer, Malfalconnet, in whose
mirthful manner that day for the first time she thought she had detected
dislike and slight sarcasm; the imperial love messenger, Don Luis
Quijada, who with icy, dutiful coldness scarcely vouchsafed a word to
her; and, lastly, the confessor Pedro de Soto, who treated her like a
person who needed pity, and probably only awaited a fitting time to hurl
an anathema into her face--passed before her memory, and in all these
persons, so far above her in birth and rank, she believed that she saw
foes.
But how was it with the man who could trample them all in the dust like
worms--with her imperial lover?
Until now he had been observant of her every sign, but yesterday night
the lion had raised his paw against her.
A slight pain had again made itself felt in his foot. She had eagerly
lamented it, and in doing so deplored the fact that she would never be
permitted to share the pleasure of dancing with the man she loved and
who had first taught her how beautiful life was. This perhaps incautious
remark had roused the ire of the suffering monarch.
How sensitive was this man’s consciousness of sovereignty, how much
suspicion and bitterness must have gathered in his heart, if he could
see in the girl’s innocent compassion an offence to his dignity, a
humiliating reproach!
The rebuking sharpness with which he expressed his displeasure had
pierced her very soul. She felt as if she were shivering with a sudden
chill, and for a long time she could not recover the loving warmth with
which she had previously treated him. True, he had soon done everything
in his power to atone for the pain which his irritability had inflicted,
but the incident had given her the perception that the poets whose songs
she sung were right when they made sorrow go hand in hand with the joys
of love.
But as yet these joys of love far, far outweighed the suffering which it
caused.
Even while, before the full knapsack which only needed locking, she
was trying to discover what fault was to be found with the man whom she
loved, while saying to herself that Charles’s inconsiderate, selfish
treatment of her father was unworthy of a generous man, and while also
thinking of the separation from the faithful Wolf, her heart still
longed for her lover.
Was she not, after all, under obligation to be grateful to him for
everything for which she reproached him?
How dear she must be to this great sovereign, since, in order to possess
her freely and completely, he allowed himself to be urged to an act
which was unworthy of him!
If he had wounded her deeply, he had a right to expect her to excuse
many things in him.
How he loved her, and how delicately he could woo and flatter, and
mingle with his tender speeches the costly gifts of his rich and mobile
intellect! How beautifully and aptly he could speak of her own art, and
induce her to oppose to his clever remarks her own modest opinion!
He had cheerfully endured contradiction the night before during the
conversation concerning music.
But what had followed her luckless regret about his lame foot?
The words had pierced her heart like knives; even now she did not
understand where she obtained the strength to withhold the sharp answer
for which her lips had already parted; but she knew her hasty spirit,
which only too easily led her to outbreaks of anger. Had the power of
love, or the magic spell which emanates from genuine royalty, forced her
to silence?
No matter.
A good angel had aided her to control herself, and in a rapid prayer
she besought the Holy Virgin to assist her in future if her august lover
again roused her to rebellion.
Now that she was losing her most sincere friends, the only ones who
might have ventured a kindly warning, she must learn to guard herself.
Perhaps it was fortunate that she had already discovered how necessary
it was not only to show the mighty sovereign to whom her heart belonged
that he was dear to her, but also to display the timid reverence with
which millions bowed before him. But if she imposed this constraint upon
herself, would her love still remain the same?
“No, no, and again no!” cried the refractory spirit within.
Was he not a weak, fallible mortal, subject, like every one else, to
suffering and disease, overcome by his passion, who had even been guilty
of an act which, had it been committed by the son of a Ratisbon family,
would have seemed to her reprehensible?
Again and again this question forced itself upon her, and with it
another--whether she, the woman who had never tolerated such a thing
from any one, ought not to undertake to defend herself against unjust
assaults, which humiliated her in her own eyes, no matter whence they
might come?
Would she not hold a higher position in his sight if she showed him,
whom no one ventured to contradict, that the woman he deemed worthy of
his love dared to defend her dignity, although he had deprived her of
her natural protectors?
Precisely because she was conscious of loving him with her whole soul,
because for his sake she had given the world the right to deny her
honour and dignity, she was eager to show him that she prized both, and
was not inclined to let them be assailed.
Hitherto she had not regarded it as a disgrace, but as the highest
distinction, to be deemed worthy of the love of the greatest monarch
on earth, and, with a sense of pride, had sacrificed her most sacred
possession to his wishes. But how could she retain this feeling if he no
longer showed her that he, too, regarded her worthy of him?
She had defied custom, law, the voice of her own conscience, and she did
not regret that she had done so. On no account would she have changed
what had occurred if only she succeeded in guarding herself from being
humiliated by her lover. To accomplish this, it was worth while to
confront a great danger boldly. It was the greatest of all, the peril of
losing him, for what would she be if he deserted her?
At the bare thought a torturing dread overwhelmed her.
Never had she felt so irresolute, so deeply agitated, and she uttered a
sigh of relief when her father returned from his visit to old Ursel, and
praised the care with which she had selected the articles that filled
his knapsack.
The flushed cheeks which he noticed could scarcely be the result of
the light labour which she had performed for him. With the instinct of
paternal love, he probably perceived that she was agitated, but he had
so little idea of the mental conflict which had taken possession of her
soul that her anxiety pleased him. The separation must be hard for the
poor child, and how could the honour bestowed upon the father fail to
affect the daughter’s mind also.
He had hoped to find Wolf in Ursel’s room, but he had already been away
some time, and had told the old woman that he was going to the Hiltners,
and should probably remain there a long while, as his schoolmate,
Erasmus Eckhart, the nephew and adopted son of the syndic and his wife,
had returned home from Wittenberg.
To find Wolf and deliver the important message Blomberg would have been
obliged to enter the accursed heretic’s house, and, rather than do it,
he protested he would inflict this and that upon himself.
But whom should he trust to represent him? The best plan would be for
Barbara to write to the young knight, informing him of the honour in
store for him.
He himself wielded the sword so much better than the pen.
The obliging daughter put a speedy end to her father’s embarrassment by
offering to go in search of Wolf in person; she by no means shunned the
Hiltners. In fact, the doctor’s wife had always been especially kind to
her at the Convivium musicum, and her young daughter Martina, during
the months in which she, too, was permitted to sing in the chorus, had
displayed, whenever opportunity offered, an admiration for Barbara which
bordered on enthusiasm. Besides, there was no obligation to keep Barbara
from this errand; the removal to Prebrunn to join the marquise was not
to take place until noon of the following day.
The pious captain, it is true, was as reluctant to let his daughter go
to the heretic’s as to a pesthouse, but Wolf’s notification permitted no
delay, so he consented, and expressed his willingness to accompany her.