After this conversation the two men who, in different positions, stood
nearest to the Emperor Charles, placed no obstacle in Barbara’s way.
The third--the Bishop of Arras--also showed a friendly spirit toward the
Emperor’s love affair. True, he had not been taken into his confidence,
but he rarely failed to be present when Barbara sang with the boy choir,
or alone, in the Golden Cross, before the monarch or distinguished
guests.
Charles summoned her there almost daily, and always at different hours.
This was done to strengthen the courtiers and the citizens of Ratisbon
in the belief that Barbara owed his favour solely to her singing.
Granvelle, who appreciated and was interested in music as well as in
painting and sculpture, found real pleasure in listening to Barbara, yet
while doing so he did not forget that she might be of service to him. If
she only remained on good terms with him she would, he was sure of that,
whether willing or not, be used as his tool.
Spite of his nine-and-twenty years, he forbade himself to cherish any
other wishes, because he would have regarded it treachery to the royal
master whom he served with faithful devotion. But, as he accepted
great gifts without ever allowing himself to be tempted to treason
or forgetfulness of duty, so he did not reject little tokens of
friendliness from Barbara, and of these she showed no lack. The young
Bishop of Arras was also an extremely fine-looking man, whose clever
brain and bright, penetrating glance harmonized with his great intellect
and his position. Wolf had already told her how much the monarch
regarded the opinion of this counsellor.
The fourth person whose good will had been represented to her as
valuable was the almoner, Pedro de Soto; but he, who usually understood
how to pay homage to beautiful women in the most delicate manner, kept
rigidly aloof.
True, he had placed no obstacle in the way of the late kindling of the
heart of his imperial master, but since his servant’s report, from
which it appeared that Barbara was on friendly terms with heretics, and
therefore cherished but a lukewarm devotion to her own faith, she was no
longer the same to him. In Spain this would have been enough to deliver
her to the Holy Inquisition. Here, however, matters were different.
Everywhere he saw the lambs associating with the wolves, and the larger
number of the relatives of the Emperor’s love had become converts to
heresy. Therefore indulgence was demanded, and De Soto would have
gladly been convinced of Barbara’s orthodoxy under such difficult
circumstances. But if it proved that the girl not only associated with
heretics, but inclined to their error, then gentle inaction must be
transformed into inexorable sternness, even though the rejuvenating
power which she exerted upon the monarch were tenfold stronger than
it doubtless was; for what danger might threaten the Emperor and
Christianity from the bewitching woman who seemed to love Charles, if
she undertook to influence him in favour of the new doctrines, which,
in the eyes of every earnest Dominican, the Emperor treated far too
leniently!
He, the confessor, even knew that Charles considered several demands
of the Protestants to which the Church could never consent, entirely
justifiable--nay, that he deemed a reformation of the Church by the
council now in session at Trent extremely desirable.
Therefore it was a duty to withhold from him every influence which could
favour these pernicious views and wishes, and Pedro de Soto had also
been young and knew only too well what power so beautiful a woman, with
such bewitching gifts, could exert upon the man whose heart cherishes
her.
So, immediately after Barbara’s entrance into Prebrunn, the confessor
adopted his measures. Although the conversation to which he subjected
her had resulted in her favour, he had deemed it beneficial to place
a priest who was devoted to him among the ecclesiastics in the little
castle.
To surround her with spies chosen from the lay class was repugnant to
his lofty nature. Besides, they would have been superfluous; for a
short time before his servant Cassian had asked permission to marry
the marquise’s French maid, and Alphonsine, who was neither young nor
pretty, was inclined to all sorts of intrigues. She supplied slow, pious
Cassian’s deficiencies in the best possible manner. A chance word from
the distinguished prelate had sufficed to make it their duty to watch
Barbara and her visitors.
In Alphonsine’s mistress, the Marquise de Leria, the almoner also
possessed a willing tale-bearer. She had avoided him since his refusal
to commend her ruined son to the favour of his imperial penitent. Now,
unasked, she had again approached him, and her explanation first gave
many an apparently unimportant communication from the servants its real
value.
The atmosphere of the court was her vital air. Even when she had
voluntarily offered to take Barbara under her charge, in a secluded
house in the suburb, she had been aware how greatly she would miss
the presence of royalty. Yet she would have endured far more difficult
things, for a thousand signs betrayed that this time his Majesty’s
heart had not been merely superficially touched, and Barbara’s traits of
character made it appear probable that, like many a beauty at the court
of Francis I of France, she might obtain an influence over the Emperor.
If this occurred, the marquise had found the most powerful tool for the
deliverance of her son.
This hope filled the old noblewoman’s heart and brain. It was her last,
for the Emperor was the only person who could save the worthless idol of
her soul from ruin, and yet, when she had grovelled at his knees in her
despair, she received an angry repulse and the threat of being instantly
deprived of her position if she ever again attempted to speak to him
about this vexatious matter. She knew only too well that Charles would
keep his word, and therefore had already induced every person whom she
believed possessed even a small share of influence over the monarch
to intercede for her, but they had been no less sharply rebuffed than
herself; for the sovereign, usually so indulgent to the reckless pranks
of the young nobles, would not even hear the name of the aristocratic
sharper, who was said to have sold the plans of the fortifications to
France.
Charles now loved a woman whom, with swift presence of mind, she had
bound to herself, and what no one else had succeeded in doing Barbara
might accomplish.
Therefore the marquise had retired to the solitude which she hated,
and hourly humbled herself to cringing flattery of a creature whom, on
account of her birth, she scorned.
But Barbara was warned and, difficult as it often was for her to
withstand the humble entreaties to which the old lady in waiting
frequently condescended, persisted in her refusal.
Yet the unhappy mother did not give up hope, for as soon as the singer
committed any act which she was obliged to conceal she could obtain
power over her. So she kept her eyes open and, whenever the Emperor
sought the young girl and was alone with her, she stole into the garden
and peered through the badly fitting window shutters into the lighted
room which was the scene of the happiness of the ill-matched lovers.
What she overheard, however, only increased the feeling of powerlessness
against the hated creature whom she so urgently needed; for the
tenderness which Charles showed Barbara was so great that it not only
filled the marquise with surprise and bitter envy, but also awakened the
conviction that it must be a small matter for the singer to obtain from
so ardent a lover far greater things than she had asked.
So she continued to watch and listen unweariedly, day after day and
evening after evening, but always in vain. She had not the most trivial
thing for which Barbara could be seriously reproached to report to the
confessor; yet De Soto desired nothing better, for Barbara still exerted
an extremely favourable influence upon the Emperor’s mood. Therefore it
vexed him that Cassian informed him of many things which prevented his
relying firmly upon her orthodoxy.
At any rate, there were Protestants among her visitors and,
unfortunately, they included Herr Peter Schlumperger, whom De Soto knew
as an active promoter of the apostasy of the Ratisbon burghers. He had
called upon her the second day after her arrival and remained a long
time but, it is true, had not appeared again. With the others also she
held no regular intercourse--nay, she scarcely seemed to enjoy their
visits. Thus the daughters of the Woller family from the Ark, who had
appeared one afternoon, had been detained only a little longer by her
than other Protestant matrons and maidens.
All this was scarcely sufficient to foster his anxiety; but Cassian
reported one visit with which the case was different. Barbara had not
only received this guest alone, but she had kept him more than an hour,
and the servant could swear that the young man to whom she sang long
songs--which, it is true, sounded like church music--to the lute
and also to the harp, was Erasmus Eckhart, the adopted son of the
archtraitor, Dr. Hiltner, who had just obtained the degree of Master
of Arts in Wittenberg. This seemed suspicious, and induced De Soto to
investigate the matter thoroughly.
Erasmus had come in the morning, at a time when the Emperor never
visited Barbara. Nothing remarkable had taken place during their
interview, but Cassian had heard her dismiss him with a warning which,
even to a less distrustful person, would have seemed suspicious. Why had
she assured the Wittenberg theologian, as she extended her hand to him
in farewell, that what he offered her had given her great pleasure, and
she would gladly invite him to bring her similar things often, but must
deny herself this gratification from motives which he could imagine? His
urgent entreaty at least to be permitted to call on her sometimes she
had curtly and positively refused, but the Wittenberg heretic did not
allow himself to be rebuffed, for Cassian had seen him several times in
the neighbourhood of the castle.
There was as little cause to object to the visits paid to her by
Gombert, Appenzelder, Damian Feys, occasionally some noblemen or guests
of the court, and once even by no less a personage than the Bishop of
Arras, as to the rides she took every afternoon; for the latter were
always under the charge of Herr de Fours, an old equerry of the Emperor,
and in the company of several courtiers, among whom Baron Malfalconnet
was often included. A number of gay young pages always belonged to
this brilliant cavalcade, whose number never lacked the handsome
sixteen-year-old Count Tassis, who spent his whole large stock of pocket
money in flowers which he sent every morning to Barbara.
The confessor was glad to hear that the estimable violinist Massi
frequently visited the girl, for he was firm in the faith, and that he
brought her tidings of the sorely wounded Sir Wolf Hartschwert could
only be beneficial, for perhaps he warned her of the seriousness of life
and that there were other things here below than the joy of love, jest,
and laughter. The almoner’s doubt of Wolf’s orthodoxy had been entirely
dispelled by his confession. Men do not deceive in the presence of
death.
It would have been a genuine boon had Barbara selected him to open her
heart to him in the confessional, for her relation to the wounded man
rendered it difficult for him to trust her entirely.
Wolf’s thoughts in his fever constantly dwelt upon her, and he sometimes
accused her of the basest treachery, sometimes coupled her name with
Malfalconnet’s, sometimes with Luis Quijada’s. The Emperor’s, on the
contrary, he had not mentioned.
He must love Barbara with ardent passion, and she, too, still seemed
warmly attached to him, for to see him again she had bravely exposed
herself to serious danger.
Eye and ear witnesses had reported that, notwithstanding his Majesty’s
positive orders to avoid her old home, she had entered the house and the
knight’s apartments, knelt beside his couch, and even kissed his weak,
burning hand with tender devotion.
But though she still retained a portion of her former affection for Wolf
Hartschwert, she loved the Emperor Charles with passionate fervour. Even
the marquise did not venture to doubt this. Often as she had watched the
meetings of the lovers, she had marvelled at the youthful ardour of the
monarch, the joyous excitement with which Barbara awaited him, and her
sorrowful depression when he left her. During the first week the old
noblewoman thought that she had never met a happier pair. The almoner
deemed it unworthy of him to listen to a report of the caresses which
she scornfully mentioned.
The time even came when he no longer needed confirmation from others,
and forbade himself to doubt Barbara’s fidelity to her religion; for at
the end of the first week in Prebrunn she had desired to ask a servant
of the Church what she must do to make herself worthy of such abundance
of the highest happiness, and to atone for the sin she was committing
through her love.
In doing so she had opened her heart to the confessor with childlike
frankness, and what De Soto heard on this occasion sincerely delighted
him and endeared to him this thoroughly sound, beautiful creature
overmastered by a first great passion. He believed her, and indignantly
rejected what the spies afterward brought to him.
Yet he did not close his ears to the marquise when, in her clever,
entertaining way, she told him what, against her will, she had overheard
in consequence of the careless construction of the little castle, built
only for a summer residence, or had seen during a walk in the garden
when the shutters, through forgetfulness, had not been closed.
How should he not have heard gladly that the monarch, at every interview
with Barbara, listened to her singing with special pleasure?
At first she chose grave, usually even religious songs, and among them
Charles’s favourite was the “Quia amore langueo.”
To listen to these deeply felt tones of yearning always seemed to
possess a fresh charm for him.
No wonder!
The singer understood how to produce a new effect each time by means of
wonderful gradations of expression in the comprehension and execution.
Once she had also succeeded in cheering her lover with Perissone
Cambio’s merry singing lesson on the ‘ut re mi fa sol’, and again with
Willaert’s laughing song, “Sempre mi ridesta.”
Two days later there had again been a great deal of laughing because
Barbara undertook to sing to his Majesty another almost recklessly
merry song by the same composer. The marquise knew it, and declared that
Barbara’s style and voice did not suit such things. She admitted that
her execution of serious, especially religious and solemn compositions,
was not amiss--nay, often it was wonderfully fine--but in such secular
tunes her real nature appeared too plainly, and the skilful singer
became a Bacchante.
It had been a sorry pleasure to her to watch the boisterous manner and
singing of this creature, who had been far too highly favoured by the
caprice of Fortune.
These reckless songs, unless she was mistaken, had also been by no means
pleasing to his Majesty. The light had fallen directly upon his face
just as she happened to glance up at the house from under the group of
lindens, and she had distinctly seen him angrily thrust out his
lower lip, which every one near his person knew was a sign of extreme
displeasure.
But the girl had gone beyond all bounds. Old as she was, she could not
help blushing at the mere thought of it. In her reckless mood she had
probably forgotten that she had drawn her imperial lover into her net
by arts of an entirely different nature. The almoner listened
incredulously, for in his youth the Emperor Charles had joined in the
wildest songs of the soldiery, and had well understood, on certain
occasions, how to be merry with the merry, laugh and carouse in a
Flemish tavern. After the confession the almoner heard things to which
he would gladly have shut his ears, though they proved that the time
which the marquise had spent at the French court had benefited her
powers of observation.
Three days before the Emperor, for the first time, had seriously found
fault with Barbara.
It had been impossible for the lady in waiting to discover the cause;
but what she knew certainly was that her lover’s censure had roused
the girl to vehement contradiction, and that his Majesty, after a sharp
reply, had been on the point of leaving her. True, the reckless beauty
had repented her imprudent outburst of wrath speedily enough, and had
understood how to conciliate the far too indulgent sovereign by such
humility and such sweet tenderness that he probably must have forgiven
her--at least the farewell had been as affectionate as ever.
Nevertheless, on the following evening, for the first time, he did not
come to the castle, and the marquise had feared that the Emperor might
now withdraw his favour from Barbara, which would have been too soon for
her own wishes.
But yesterday evening, after sunset, the dark litter, to the old
noblewoman’s relief, had again stopped behind the garden gate, and the
pleasure of having her lover again had so deeply overjoyed Barbara that
he, too, was infected by her radiant delight.
Then, in the midst of the most tender caresses, he had been summoned out
of the room, and when he returned, with frowning brow, the marquise had
witnessed at least the commencement of a scene which seemed to justify
her opinion that his Majesty: would have no taste for Barbara’s utter
freedom from restraint and gay secular songs.
Unfortunately, she had been prematurely driven from her post of
observation; but she had seen the Emperor come in, and Barbara, without
noticing his altered expression, or rather, probably, to cheer him
by something especially merry, gaily began Baldassare Donati’s superb
dancing-master’s song, “Qui la gagliarda vuol imparare,” at the same
time in the merriest, most graceful manner imitating the movements of
the gagliarda dancer.
But Charles soon interrupted her, sharply requesting her to sing
something else or cease entirely for that day.
Startled, she again asked forgiveness, and then pleaded in justification
the universally acknowledged beauty of this charming song, which Maestro
Gombert also admired; but the Emperor flew into a passion, and cut her
short with the loud remark that he was not in the habit of having his
own judgment corrected by the opinion of others. The jest did all honour
to the skill and merry mood of the composer, but the contrary might be
said of the singer who ventured to sing it to a person in whom it could
awaken only bitter feelings.
But when, so painfully surprised that her eyes filled with tears, she
confessed that her selection perhaps had not been very appropriate, and
sadly added the inquiry why her beloved sovereign condemned a trivial
offence so harshly, he wrathfully exclaimed, “For more than one reason.”
Then, rising, he paced the room several times with a somewhat limping
gait, saying, in so loud a tone that it could be distinctly heard in the
dark, sultry garden: “Because it shows little delicacy of feeling when
the man who is satiated tells the starving one of the dainty meal which
he has just eaten; because--because I call it shameful for a person who
can see to tell one who is blind of the pleasure he derives from the
splendid colours of gay flowers; because I expect from the woman whom I
honour with my love more consideration for me and what shadows my life.
Because”--and here he raised his voice still more angrily--“I demand
from any one united to me, the Emperor, by whatever bond----”
The marquise had been unable to hear more of the monarch’s violent
attack, for the messenger who had just brought the unwelcome news--it
was Adrian Dubois--had not only passed her, but ventured to call to her
and remark that she would be wise to go into the house--a thunderstorm
was rising. He was not afraid of the rain, and would wait there for his
Majesty.
So the listener did not hear how the incensed monarch continued with the
demand that the woman he loved should neither tell him falsehoods nor
deceive him.
Until then Barbara had listened, silent and pale, biting her trembling
lips in order to adhere to her resolve to submit without reply to
whatever Charles’s terrible irritability inflicted upon her. But he must
have noticed what was passing in her mind, for he suddenly paused in
his walk, and, abruptly standing before her, gazed full into her face,
exclaiming: “It is not you who are offended, but I, the sovereign
whom you say you love. Day before yesterday I forbade you to go to the
musician in Red Cock Street, yet you were with him to-day. I asked
you just now whether you had obeyed me and, with smiling lips, you
assented.”
Barbara was already prepared with an answer in harmony with the
sharpness of the attack, yet her lover’s reproof was well founded.
When he had left the room shortly before he must have been informed
that, in defiance of his explicit command, she had gone to the knight’s
house that morning.
But no one had ever charged her with lack of courage. Why had she not
dared to confess the fault which, from a good and certainly pardonable
impulse, she had committed?
Was she not free, or when had she placed herself under obligation to
render blind obedience to her lover?
But the falsehood!
How severely she must perhaps atone for it this time!
Yet the esteem, the love of the man to whom her heart clung, whom she
worshipped with all the fervour of her passionate soul, might be at
stake, and when he now seized his hat to withdraw she barred his way.
Sobbing aloud, she threw herself at his feet, confessed that she was
guilty, and remorsefully admitted that fear of his resentment, which
seemed to her more terrible than death, had induced her to deny what
she had done. She could hate herself for it. Nothing could palliate the
departure from the path of truth, but her disobedience might perhaps
appear to him in a milder light if he learned what had induced her to
commit it.
Charles, still in an angry, imperious tone, ordered her to rise. She
silently obeyed, and when he threw himself on the divan she timidly sat
down by his side, turning toward him her troubled face, which for the
first time he saw wet with tears.
Yet a hopeful smile brightened her moist eyes, for she felt that, since
he permitted her to remain at his side, all might yet be well.
Then she timidly took his hand and, as he permitted it, she held
it firmly while she explained what ties had bound her to Wolf from
childhood.
She represented herself as the sisterly counsellor of the friend who had
grown up in the same house with her. Music and the Catholic religion,
in the midst of a city which had fallen into the Protestant heresy, had
been the bond between them. After his return home he had probably been
unable to help falling in love with her, but, so truly as she hoped for
Heaven’s mercy, she had kept her heart closed against Cupid until he,
the Emperor, had approached in order, like that other Caesar, to come,
to see, and to conquer. But she was only a woman, and pity in a woman’s
soft heart was as hard to silence as the murmur of a swift mountain
stream or the rushing of the wind.
Yesterday she had learned from the violinist Massi that the knight’s
condition was much more critical, and he desired before his death to
clasp her hand again. So, believing that disobedience committed to
lighten the last hours of a dying man would be pardonable before God and
human beings, she had visited the unfortunate Wolf.
The helpful and joy-bestowing power of good works, which the Protestants
denied, had thus become very evident to her; for since she had clasped
the sufferer’s hand an indescribable sense of happiness had taken
possession of her, while the knight began to improve. The news had
reached her just before this, the Emperor’s, arrival, had made her
happy, and, in spite of her evil conscience, had put her in a very
cheerful mood. But now this beautiful evening had become the saddest one
of her whole life.
Fresh tears, and the other means of conciliation inspired by her loving
heart, then induced the angry lover to forgive her.
Barbara felt this as a great piece of good fortune, and made every
effort to curb the refractory temper which, hitherto, had found nothing
less welcome than humble submission.
Day after day since that evening the confessor had been informed that
nothing interrupted the concord of the lovers, and that Barbara often
prayed very fervently in the private chapel. This pleased the almoner,
and when Cassian told him that, on the evening after the quarrel, the
Emperor had again come to the castle to remain a long time, he rejoiced.
To Barbara this visit had been a true heavenly blessing, but though
Charles showed himself sufficiently loving, she felt, even during the
succeeding visits, that since that fateful episode something difficult
to describe or explain had rested like a gloomy shadow on the Emperor’s
joyous confidence.
This change in her lover could scarcely be due to her, for she had
honestly endeavoured to avoid everything which could anger him.
How should she have suspected that the great student of human nature to
whom she had given her heart perceived the restraint which she imposed
upon herself in every interview with him, and that the moderation to
which she submitted from love robbed her of a portion of the charm her
gay unconcern had exerted upon him? Charles suspiciously attributed this
change in the disposition of the woman he loved sometimes to one cause,
sometimes to another; and when he showed her that he missed something
in her which had been dear to him, she thought it a new token of his
dissatisfaction, and increased the restraint which she placed upon
herself.
If the gout again attacked him or the pressure of business, which at
that time constantly made more and more imperious demands upon the
Emperor Charles, detained him from her on one or another evening,
torturing anxiety assailed her, and she had no sleep all night.
Besides, the marquise did not cease to press her with entreaties and
expostulations, and Frau Lerch constantly urged Barbara to profit by the
favour of such a lover. She ought to think of the future, and indemnify
herself with estates and titles for the sad fate awaiting her if his
Majesty wearied of her love.
The ex-maid knew how to describe, in vivid hues, how all would turn
from her if that should happen, and how little the jewels with which he
sometimes delighted her would avail.
But Barbara had cared only for her lord’s love, and it was not even
difficult for her to resist the urgency. Yet whenever she was alone with
Charles, and he showed plainly how dear she was to him, the question
forced itself upon her whether this would not be the right time to speak
of her future, and to follow the counsel of the experienced woman who
certainly meant kindly toward her.
This made her silent and constrained for a time, and when she saw that
her manner annoyed her lover she thrust aside the selfish impulse which
was rendering her unlovable, and sometimes showed her delight in the
victory of love over every other feeling so impetuously, that her
nature seemed to have lost the unvarying cheerfulness which had formerly
delighted him, and he left her in a less satisfied mood.
Besides, the marquise had received a letter from Paris, in which her son
declared that if his gambling debts were not paid by the first of August
he would be completely disgraced, and nothing would remain for him
except to end an existence which had lost all charm. The wretched mother
again opened her heart to Barbara and, when she still resisted her
lamentations and entreaties, threw herself on her knees and sobbing
besought her to let her heart be softened.
The sight of the aged noblewoman writhing like a maniac in the dust was
so pitiful and touching that it melted Barbara’s heart, and induced her
to promise to use the first favourable opportunity to intercede with the
Emperor in behalf of her son and his child, a little girl of six. From
that time she awaited at every new interview the opportune moment; but
when Charles was less gracious, the right time certainly had not come,
and when he was especially loving the happiness of possessing his heart
seemed to her so great that it appeared sinful to risk it for the sake
of a stranger.
This waiting and conflict with herself also did not remain unnoticed,
and it was characteristic of Charles to reflect upon and seek reasons
for it. Only the spell of her voice and her beauty had remained
unchanged, and when she sang in the Golden Cross in the presence of the
guests, who became more numerous the nearer drew the time of the opening
of the Reichstag, fixed for the fifth of June, and he perceived their
delight, vanity fanned the dying fire again, for he still loved her, and
therefore felt associated with her and her successes.
So the days became weeks, and though they brought Barbara a wealth of
happiness, they were not free from gloomy and bitter hours.
The marquise, who saw her son’s doom drawing nearer and nearer, made the
mealtimes and every moment which she spent with her a perfect hell. Frau
Lerch continued to urge her, and now advised her to persuade the Emperor
to rid her of the old tormentor.
In another matter also she was at a loss what to do. The Wittenberg
theologian, Erasmus Eckhart, found that his own songs, when she sang
them to him, seemed entirely new, and the gratitude he felt merged into
ardent love, the first which had taken possession of his young soul. But
Barbara resolutely refused to receive his visits, and thereby deprived
him of the possibility of opening his heart to her. So, in despair,
he wandered about her house more and more frequently, and sent her one
fiery love letter after another.
To betray his unseemly conduct to the Emperor or to the confessor would
have brought upon him too severe a punishment for an offence which,
after all, was the most profound homage. She dared not go to the
Hiltners, from fear of a fresh misunderstanding, and it would be a long
time ere Wolf’s health would permit him to be excited by such matters.
So she was forced to content herself with censuring Erasmus’s conduct,
through Frau Lerch, in the harshest manner, and threatening to appeal
to his foster-parents and, in the worst extremity, to the magistrate,
to rid herself of his importunities. Nearly two thirds of May had passed
when the Emperor found himself prevented by a second attack of gout from
visiting her. But Barbara’s heart drew her toward him so strongly that
during the usual noon ride she hit upon an idea, for whose execution she
immediately made preparations by secretly entreating young Count Tassis
to lend her one of his suits of clothes.
The merry page, a handsome boy of sixteen, who had already crossed
rapiers with one of his companions for her sake, was about her height,
and delighted to share a secret with her. His most expensive costume,
with everything belonging to it, was placed in her room at twilight, and
when night closed in, disguised as a page, she entered the litter and
was carried to the Golden Cross, where Adrian received her and conducted
her to his royal master.
The elderly man thought he had never seen her look so charming as in the
yellow velvet doublet with ash-gray facings, the gray silk hose, and the
yellow and gray cap resting on her glittering golden hair.
And the Emperor Charles was of the same opinion.
Besides, her lively prank transported him back to his own youth, when
he himself had glided more than once in page’s attire to some beautiful
young lady of the court, and gaily as in better days, tenderly as an
ardent youth, he thanked her for her charming enterprise.
After a few blissful hours, which crowded all that she had lately
suffered into oblivion, she left him.
When she again entered the little Prebrunn castle she would gladly have
embraced the whole world.
From the litter she had noticed a light in the windows of the marquise’s
sitting-room, but she could now look the poor old noblewoman freely in
the face, for this time, sure of experiencing no sharp rebuff, she had
found courage to speak of the son to her royal lover.
True, as soon as Charles heard what she desired, he kindly requested
her not to sully her beautiful lips with the name of a scoundrel who
had long since forfeited every claim to his favour, and her mission was
thereby frustrated; but she had now kept her promise.
With the entreaty to spare him in future the pain of refusing any wish
of the woman he loved, the disagreeable affair had been dismissed.
When Barbara took the lute, he had begged the fairest of all troubadours
to sing once more, before any other song, his beloved “Quia amore
langueo,” and the most vigorous applause was bestowed on every one which
she afterward executed.
Now she had done all that was possible for the marquise, but no power on
earth should induce her to undertake anything of the sort a second time;
She was saying this to herself as she entered the little castle.
Let the old noblewoman come now!
She was not long in doing so. But how she looked!
The little gray curls done up in papers stood out queerly from her
narrow head. Her haggard cheeks were destitute of rouge and lividly
pale.
Her black eyes glittered strangely from their deep sockets as if she
were insane, and ragged pieces of her morning dress, which she had torn
in a fit of helpless fury, hung down upon her breast.
The sight made Barbara shudder. She suspected the truth.
During her absence a new message of evil had reached the marquise.
Unless ten thousand lire could be sent to her son at once, he would be
condemned to the galleys, and his child would be abandoned to misery and
disgrace.
While speaking, the wretched mother, with trembling hands, tore out a
locket which she wore on a little chain around her neck. It contained
the angelic face, painted on ivory by an artist’s hand, of a fair-haired
little girl. The child bore her name, Barbara. The singer knew this. How
often the affectionate grandmother had told her with sparkling eyes of
her little “Babette”!
The father chained to the rowers’ bench among the most abominable
ruffians, this loveliest of children perishing in hunger, misery,
and shame--what a terrible picture! Barbara beheld it with tangible
distinctness, and while the undignified old aristocrat, deprived of all
self-control, sobbed and besought her to have compassion, the girl who
had grown up amid poverty and care went back in memory to the days when,
to earn money for a thin soup, a bit of dry bread, a small piece of
cheap cow beef, or to protect herself from the importunity of an unpaid
tradesman, she had washed laces with her own delicate hands and seen
her nobly born, heroic father scratch crooked letters and scrawling
ornaments upon common gray tin.
The same fate, nay, one a thousand times worse, awaited this wonderfully
lovely patrician child, whose father was to wield the oars in the
galleys if no one interceded for the unfortunate man.
What was life!
From the height of happiness it led her directly to such an abyss of the
deepest woe.
What contrasts!
A day, an hour had transported her from bitter poverty and torturing
yearning to the side of the highest and greatest of monarchs, but who
could tell for how long--how soon the fall into the gulf awaited her?
A shudder ran through her frame, and a deep pity for the sweet creature
whose coloured likeness she held in her hand seized upon her.
She probably remembered her lover’s refusal, and that she only needed
to allude to it to release herself from the wailing old woman, but an
invisible power sealed her lips. She was filled with an ardent desire
to help, to avert this unutterable misery, to bring aid to this child,
devoted to destruction.
To rise above everything petty, and with the imperial motto “More,
farther,” before her eyes, to attain a lofty height from which to look
down upon others and show her own generosity to them, had been the
longing of her life. She was still permitted to feel herself the object
of the love of the mightiest sovereign on earth, and should she be
denied performing, by her own power, an act of deliverance to which
heart and mind urged her?
No, and again no!
She was no longer poor Wawerl!
She could and would show this, for, like an illumination, words which
she had heard the day before in the Golden Cross had flashed into her
memory.
Master Wenzel Jamnitzer, the famous Nuremberg goldsmith, had addressed
them to her in the imperial apartments, where he had listened to her
singing the day before.
He had come to consult with the Emperor Charles about the diadems which
he wished to give his two nieces, the daughters of Ferdinand, King
of the Romans, who were to be married in July in Ratisbon. Their
manufacture had been intrusted to Master Jamnitzer, and after the
concert the Nuremberg artist had thanked Barbara for the pleasure which
he owed her. In doing so, he had noticed the Emperor’s first gift,
the magnificent star which she wore on her breast at the side of her
squarenecked dress. Examining it with the eye of an expert, he had
remarked that the central stone alone was worth an estate.
If she deprived herself of this superb ornament, the despairing old
mother would be consoled, and the lovely child saved from hunger and
disgrace.
With Barbara, thought, resolve, and action followed one another in rapid
succession.
“You shall have what you need to-morrow,” she called to the marquise,
kissed--obeying a hasty impulse--her little namesake’s picture, rejected
any expression of thanks from the astonished old dame, and went to rest.
Frau Lerch had never seen her so radiant with happiness, yet she was
irritated by the reserve of the girl for whom she thought she had
sacrificed so much, yet whose new garments had already brought her more
profit than the earnings of the three previous years.
The next morning Master Jamnitzer called the valuable star his own,
and pledged himself to keep the matter secret, and to obtain from the
Fuggers a bill of exchange upon Paris for ten thousand lire.
The honest man sent her through the Haller banking house a thousand
ducats, that he might not be open to the reproach of having defrauded
her.
Yet the gold which she did not need for the marquise seemed to Barbara
like money unjustly obtained. While she was riding out at noon, Frau
Lerch found it in her chest, and thought that she now knew what had made
the girl so happy the day before. She was all the more indignant when,
soon after, Barbara gave half the new wealth to the Prebrunn town clerk
to distribute among the poor journeymen potters whose huts had been
burned down the previous night. The rest she kept to give to the
relatives of her one-eyed maid-servant at home, who were in the direst
poverty.
For the first time she had felt the pleasure of interposing, like a
higher power, in the destiny of others. What she had hoped from the
greatness to which she had risen now appeared on the eve of being
actually and wholly fulfilled.
Even the strange manner in which the marquise thanked her for her
generosity could but partially impair the exquisite sense of happiness
which filled her heart.
As soon as the old noblewoman heard that the bill of exchange for her
son was on the way to Paris, she expressed her intention of thanking his
Majesty for this noble donation.
Startled and anxious, Barbara was obliged to forbid this, and to confess
that, on the contrary, the Emperor had refused to do anything whatever
for her son, and that morning, for little Babette’s sake, she had used
her own property.
The marquise then angrily declared that a Marquise de Leria could accept
such a favour without a blush solely from his Majesty. Even from an
equal in station she must refuse gifts of such value. If Barbara was
honest, she would admit that she had never, even by a syllable, asked
for a donation, but always only for her intercession with his Majesty.
Her hasty action made withdrawal impossible, but the humiliation which
she had experienced through her was so hard to conquer that she could
scarcely bring herself to feel grateful for a gift which, in itself, was
certainly worthy of appreciation.
In fact, from that time the marquise entirely changed her manner, and
instead of flattering her ward as before, she treated her with haughty
coldness, and sometimes remarked that poverty and hostility were often
easier to bear than intrusive kindness and humiliating gifts.
Hitherto Barbara had placed no one under obligation to be grateful, and
therefore the ugliness of ingratitude was unknown to her.
Now she was to become acquainted with it.
At first this disappointment wounded her, but soon the marquise’s
intention of ridding herself, by this conduct, of a heavy debt became
apparent, and she opposed to the base cunning a gay defence, but was
then forced to encounter the marquise’s condemnation of it as the
outgrowth of an ungenerous soul.
How unpleasant this was! Yet she kept what she had done for the old
aristocrat and the way in which she had requited it a secret, even from
Frau Lerch, especially as the Emperor soon alluded to his denial of her
entreaty, and gave a description of young Leria which filled her with
horror, and led to the conviction that the sacrifice which she had made
for him and his little daughter had been utterly futile.
Little Babette, she also heard, was cared for in the best possible
manner, having been withdrawn front her father’s influence long before
and placed in charge of an estimable, wealthy, and aristocratic aunt,
her mother’s sister, who filled the latter’s place.
This act of charity had been utterly spoiled for the overhasty giver,
and, while the glad remembrance of the pure delight which she had felt
after her generous resolve faded more and more, she began to be uneasy
about her reckless transaction with the Nuremberg goldsmith, for the
Emperor during his very next visit had asked about the star, and in
her confusion she had again been forced into a falsehood, and tried
to excuse herself for so rarely wearing his beautiful present by the
pretext that the gold pin which fastened it was bent.
She could have inflicted various punishments upon herself for her
precipitate yielding to a hastily awakened sympathy, for it would surely
anger the Emperor if he learned how carelessly she had treated his first
costly gift.
Perhaps some hint of its sale had already reached his ears, for,
although he had made no opposition to her apology, he afterward remained
taciturn and irritable.
Every subsequent interview with her lover was terribly shadowed by the
dread that he might think of the unlucky ornament again.
Yet, on this occasion also, fear prevented the brave girl from
confessing the whole truth.