The child himself asked to be put in his little bed, the physician was

summoned, and the next morning the scarlet fever broke out.

When the father returned, the youngest chill had also been attacked by

the same fell disease, and now a time came when Barbara, during many an

anxious hour of the night, forgot that in distant Spain she possessed

another child for whose sake she had been ready to rob these two dear

little creatures, who so greatly needed her, of their mother. This

purpose weighed upon her conscience like the heaviest of sins while she

was fighting against Death, which seemed to be already stretching his

hand toward the oldest boy.

When one evening the physician expressed the fear that the child would

not survive the approaching night, she prayed with passionate fervour

for his preservation, and meanwhile it seemed as though a secret voice

cried: “Vow to the gracious Virgin not to give the Emperor’s son a

higher place in your heart than the children of the man to whom a holy

sacrament unites you! Then you will first make yourself worthy of the

dear imperilled life in yonder little bed.”

Thrice, four times, and oftener still, Barbara raised her hands to utter

this vow, but ere she did so she said to herself that never, never could

she wholly fulfil it, and, to save herself from a fresh sin, she did not

make it.

But with what anxiety she now gazed at the glowing face of the fevered

boy whenever the warning voice again rose!

At midnight the little sufferer’s eyes seemed to her to shine with a

glassy look, and when, pleading for help, he raised them to her, her

heart melted, and in fervent, silent prayer she cried to the Queen of

Heaven, “Spare me this child, make it well, and I will not think of the

Emperor’s son more frequently nor, if I can compass it, with warmer love

than this clear creature and his little brother in the cradle.”

Scarcely had these words died on her lips than she again felt that she

had promised more than she had the power to perform. Yet she repeated

the vow several times.

During the whole terrible night her husband stood beside her, obeying

every sign, eagerly and skilfully helping in many ways; and when in the

morning the doctor appeared she was firmly convinced that her vow had

saved the sick boy’s life. The crisis was over.

Henceforth, whenever the yearning for the distant John seized upon her

with special power, she thought of that night, and loaded the little

sons near her with tokens of the tenderest love.

On that morning of commencing convalescence her husband’s grateful kiss

pleased her.

True, during the time that followed, Pyramus succeeded no better than

before in warming his wife’s cold heart, but Barbara omitted many things

which had formerly clouded his happiness.

The Emperor Charles had again gone to foreign countries, and therefore

festivals and shows no longer attracted her. She rarely allowed herself

a visit to Frau Dubois, but, above all, she talked with her boys and

about them like every other mother. It even seemed to Pyramus as though

her old affection for the Emperor Charles was wholly dead; for when,

in November of the following year, agitated to the very depths of his

being, he brought her the tidings that the Emperor had been surprised

and almost captured at Innsbruck by Duke Maurice of Saxony, who owed

him the Elector’s hat, and had only escaped the misfortune by a hurried

flight to Carinthia, he merely saw a smile, which he did not know how to

interpret, on her lips. But little as Barbara said about this event, her

mind was often occupied with it.

In the first place, it recalled to her memory the dance under the

lindens at Prebrunn.

Did it not seem as if her ardent royal partner of those days had become

her avenger?

Yet it grieved her that the man whose greatness and power it had grown

a necessity for her to admire had suffered so deep a humiliation and, as

at the time of the May festival under the Ratisbon lindens, the sympathy

of her heart belonged to him to whom she had apparently preferred the

treacherous Saxon duke.

The treaty of Passau, which soon followed his flight, was to impose upon

the monarch things scarcely less hard to bear; for it compelled him to

allow the Protestants in Germany the free exercise of their religion,

and to release his prisoners, the Elector John Frederick of Saxony and

the Landgrave Philip of Hesse.

Whatever befell the sovereign she brought into connection with herself.

Charles’s motto had now become unattainable for him, as since her loss

of voice it had been for her. Her heart bled unseen, and his misfortune

inflicted new wounds upon it. How he, toward whom the whole world

looked, and whose sensitive soul endured with so much difficulty the

slightest transgression of his will and his inclination, would

recover from the destruction of the most earnest, nay, the most sacred

aspirations of a whole life, was utterly incomprehensible to her. To

restore the unity of religion had been as warm a desire of his heart as

the cultivation of singing had been cherished by hers, and the treaty of

Passau ceded to the millions of German Protestants the right to remain

separated from the Catholic Church. This must utterly cloud, darken,

poison his already joyless existence. Spite of the wrong he had done

her, how gladly, had she not been lost to art, she would now have tried

upon him its elevating, consoling power!

From her old confessor, her husband, and others she learned that Charles

scarcely paid any further heed to the political affairs of the German

nation, which had once been so important to him; and with intense

indignation she heard the fellow-countrymen whom her husband brought to

the house declare that, in her German native land, Charles was now as

bitterly hated as he had formerly been loved and reverenced.

The imperial crown would lapse to his brother; Ferdinand’s son,

Maximilian, now Charles’s son-in-law, was destined to succeed his

father, while the Infant Philip must in future be content with the

sovereignty of Spain, the Netherlands, Charles’s Italian possessions,

and the New World.

For years Barbara had believed that she hated him, but now, when the

bitterest envy could have desired nothing more cruel, with all the

warmth of her passionate heart she made his suffering her own, and it

filled her with shame and resentment against herself that she, too, had

more than once desired to see her own downfall revenged on him.

Her soul was again drawn toward the sorely punished man more strongly

than she would have deemed possible a short time before and, after his

return to Brussels, she gazed with an aching heart at the ashen-gray

face of the sufferer, marked by lines of deep sorrow.

Now he really did resemble a broken old man. Barbara rarely mingled

with the people, but she sometimes went with her husband and several

acquaintances outside the gate, or heard from the few intimate friends

whom she had made, the neighbours, and the peddlers who came to her

house, with what cruel harshness the heretics were treated.

When the monarch, it was often said, was no longer the Charles to whom

the provinces owed great benefits and who had won many hearts, but

his Spanish son, Philip, the chains would be broken, and this shameful

bloodshed would be stopped; but her husband declared such predictions

idle boasting, and Barbara willingly believed him because she wished

that he might be right.

In the officer’s eyes all heretics deserved death, and he agreed with

Barbara that the Emperor Charles’s wisdom took the right course in all

cases.

His son Philip was obedient to his father, and would certainly continue

to wield the sceptre according to his wishes.

The breath of liberty, which was beginning to stir faintly in the

provinces through which he so often travelled, could not escape

Pyramus’s notice, but he saw in it only the mutinous efforts of

shameless rebels and misguided men, who deserved punishment. The quiet

seclusion in which Barbara lived rendered it easy to win her over to her

husband’s view of this noble movement; besides, it was directed against

the unhappy man whom she would willingly have seen spared any fresh

anxiety, and who had proved thousands of times how much he preferred the

Netherlands to any other of his numerous kingdoms.

Hitherto Barbara had troubled herself very little about political

affairs, and her interest in them died completely when a visitor called

who threw them, as well as everything else, wholly into the shade.

CHAPTER XIII.

Wolf Hartschwert had come to Brussels and sought Barbara.

Her husband was attending to the duties of his office in the Rhine

country when she received her former lover. Had Pyramus been present, he

might perhaps have considered the knight a less dangerous opponent than

seven years before, for a great change had taken place in his outer man.

The boyish appearance which at that time still clung to him had vanished

and, by constant intercourse with the Castilian nobility, he had

acquired a manly, self-assured bearing perfectly in harmony with his age

and birth.

As he sat opposite to Barbara for the first time, she could not avert

her eyes from him and, with both his hands clasped in hers, she let him

tell her of his journey to Brussels and his efforts to find her in the

great city. Meanwhile she scarcely heeded the purport of his words; it

was enough to feel the influence exerted by the tone of his voice, and

to be reminded by his features and his every gesture of something once

dear to her.

He appeared like the living embodiment of the first beautiful days of

her youth, and her whole soul was full of gratitude that he had sought

her; while he, too, had the same experience, though his former passion

had long since changed into a totally different feeling. He thought her

beautiful, but her permitting their hands to remain clasped so long now

agitated him no more than if she had been a dear, long-absent sister.

When Barbara was told who awaited her in the sitting roam and, with

flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, clad in a light morning gown which

was very becoming to her, had hastened to greet him, his heart had

indeed throbbed faster, and it seemed as though an unexpected Easter

morning awaited the old buried love; but she had scarcely uttered his

name and exchanged a few words of greeting in a voice which, though no

longer hoarse, still lacked melody, than the flood of newly awakened

emotions swiftly ebbed again.

She was still only half the Wawerl of former days, whose musical voice

had helped to make her the queen of his heart. So he had soon regained

the calmness which, in Spain and on the journey here, he had expected

to test at their meeting. Even the last trace of a deeper emotion passed

away when she told him of her husband, her children, and her gray-haired

father in Ratisbon, for the hasty, almost reluctant manner with which

this was done perplexed and displeased him. True, he could not know that

from the first moment of their meeting her one desire had been to obtain

news of her stolen son. Everything else appeared trivial in comparison.

And what constraint she was forced to impose upon herself when,

not hearing her cautious introductory question, he told her about

Villagarcia, his peerless mistress, Doha Magdalena de Ulloa, and his

musical success! Not until he said that during the winter he would be

occupied in training the boy choir at Valladolid did she approach her

goal by inquiring about the welfare of the violinist Massi.

Both he and his family were in excellent health, Wolf replied. Rest in

his little house at Leganes seemed to have fairly rejuvenated him.

Now Barbara herself mentioned the boy whom Massi had taken to Spain in

the train of the Infant Don Philip.

How this affected Wolf!

He started, not only in surprise, but in actual alarm, and eagerly

demanded to know who had spoken to her about this child in connection

with the violinist.

Barbara now said truthfully that she had seen Massi with her own eyes in

the Infant’s train. So beautiful a boy is not easily forgotten, and she

would be glad to hear news of him.

Wolf, however, seemed reluctant to talk of this child. True, he hastily

remarked, he sometimes visited him at the request of his gracious

mistress, but he had no more knowledge of his real origin than she or

Dona Magdalena de Ulloa. The latter supposed the boy to be her husband’s

child, and in her generosity therefore interested herself doubly in the

forsaken boy, though only at a distance and through his mediation; for

his own part, he could never believe the fair-haired, pink-and-white

Geronimo to be a son of the dark-skinned, black-eyed Don Luis. True,

the stony silence which the major-domo maintained toward all questions

concerning the lad would neither permit him to soothe his wife nor

confirm her fear. At any rate, Geronimo must be the son of some great

noble. This was perfectly apparent from his bearing, the symmetry of

his limbs, his frank, imperious nature--nay, from every movement of this

remarkable child.

At this assurance Barbara’s soul glowed with proud maternal joy. Her

blue eyes sparkled with a brighter light, and the sunny, radiant glance

with which she thanked Wolf for his information exerted an unexpected

influence upon him, for he shrank back as though the curtain which

concealed a rare marvel had been lifted and, drawing a long breath,

gazed into her beautiful, joyous face.

It seemed as if the luminous reflection of the proud, noble, and

pure delight which shone upon him from her eyes had beamed in little

Geronimo’s a few weeks before when he rushed up to him to show his

hunting spoils, a fitchet and several birds which he had killed with his

pretty little cross-bow, a gift from Dona Magdalena. And Barbara’s wavy

golden hair, the little dimple in her cheek! Geronimo must be her child;

this wonderful resemblance could not deceive.

“Barbara,” he cried, pressing his hand to his brow with deep emotion,

“Geronimo is--gracious Virgin!--the handsome, proud, deserted boy may

be----”

But an imperious gesture from the young wife closed his lips; Frau

Lamperi had just led her two boys, beautifully dressed as they always

were when any distinguished visitor called upon their mother, into the

room. The expression of radiant happiness which had just illumined her

features vanished at the sight of the little ones, and she commanded the

children to be taken away at once.

She looked so stern and resolute that her faithful maid lacked courage

to make any sign of recognising the knight, whom she had known while she

was in the regent’s service.

When the door had closed behind the group, Barbara again turned to her

friend, and in a low tone asked, “And suppose that you saw aright, and

Geronimo were really my child?”

“Then--then,” Wolf faltered in bewilderment, “then Don Luis would--But

surely it can not be! Then, after all, Quijada would be--”

Here a low laugh from Barbara broke the silence, and with dilated eyes

he learned who Geronimo’s parents were.

Then the knight listened breathlessly to the young mother’s account of

the robbery of her child, and how, in spite of her own boys and the vow

which she had made the Dubois couple not to follow the Emperor’s son,

she lived only in and through him.

“The Emperor Charles!” cried Wolf, as if he now understood for the first

time what he might so easily have guessed if the fair-haired boy had

not grown up amid such extremely plain surroundings. The belief that

Geronimo owed his life to Quijada had been inspired by Massi himself.

But while the knight was striving to accustom himself to this wholly

novel circle of ideas, Barbara, with passionate impetuosity, clasped his

right hand and placed it on the crucifix which hung on her rosary.

Then she commanded her astonished friend to swear to guard this secret,

which was not hers alone, from every living being.

Wolf yielded without resistance to her passionate entreaties, but

scarcely had he lowered the hand uplifted to take the oath than he urged

her at least to grant him permission to restore Dona Magdalena’s peace

of mind; but Barbara waved her hand with resolute denial, hastily

exclaiming: “No, no, no! Don Luis was the tool in every blow which

Charles, his master, dealt at my happiness and peace. Let the woman

who is dear to him, and who is already winning by her gifts the child’s

love, which belongs to me, and to me alone, now feel how the heart of

one who is deceived can ache.”

Here, deeply wounded, Wolf burst into a complaint of the harshness and

injustice of such vengeance; but Barbara insisted so defiantly upon her

will that he urged her no further, and seized his hat to retire.

Deep resentment had taken possession of him. This misguided woman,

embittered by misfortune, possessed the power of rendering the greatest

benefit to one infinitely her superior in nobility of soul, and with

cruel defiance she refused it.

His whole heart was full of gratitude and love for Dona Magdalena, who

by her unvarying kindness and elevating example had healed his wounded

soul, and no ignoble wish had sullied this great and deep affection.

Although for years he had devoted to her all the ability and good will

which he possessed, he still felt deeply in her debt and, now that the

first opportunity of rendering her a great service presented itself, he

was deprived of the possibility of doing it by the woman who had already

destroyed the happiness of his youth.

So bitter was the resentment which filled his soul that he could not

bring himself to seek her on the following day; but she awaited him

with the sorrowful fear that she had saddened the return of her best

and truest friend. Besides, she was now beginning to be tortured by the

consciousness of having broken or badly fulfilled the vow by which she

had won from the Holy Virgin the life of her sick Conrad. Why had she

sent her boys away the day before, instead of showing them to the friend

of her youth with maternal joy? because her heart had been full of the

image of the other, whose rare beauty and patrician bearing Wolf had so

enthusiastically described. True, her pair of little boys would not

have borne comparison with the Emperor’s son, yet they were both good,

well-formed children, and clung to her with filial affection. Why could

she not even now, when Heaven itself forced her to be content, free

herself from the fatal imperial “More, farther,” which, both for the

monarch and for her, had lost its power to command and to promise?

When, on the evening after Wolf’s visit, she bent over the children

sleeping in their little bed, she felt as a nurse may who comes from

a patient who has succumbed to a contagious disease and now fears

communicating it to her new charge. Suppose that the gracious

intercessor should punish her broken vow by raising her hand against

the children sleeping there? This dread seized the guilty mother with

irresistible power, and she wondered that the cheeks of the little

sleepers were not already glowing with fever.

She threw herself penitently on her knees before the priedieu, and the

first atonement to be made for the broken vow was apparent. She must

allow Wolf to restore peace to Dona Magdalena’s troubled mind. This

was not easy, for she had cherished her resentment against this woman’s

husband, through whom she had experienced bitter suffering, for many

years. His much-lauded wife herself was a stranger to her, yet she could

not think of her except with secret dislike; it seemed as if a woman who

bore the separation from the man she loved so patiently, and yet won all

hearts, must go through life--unless she was a hypocrite--with cold fish

blood.

Besides----

What right had this lady to the boy to whom Barbara gave birth, whose

love would now be hers had it not been wrested from her? What was denied

to her would be lavished upon this favoured woman, and when she bestowed

gifts upon the glorious child for whom every pulse of her being longed,

and repaid his love with love, it was regarded as a fresh proof of her

noble kindness of heart. To withhold from this woman something which

would give her fresh happiness and relieve her of sorrow might have

afforded her a certain satisfaction. To bless those who curse and

despitefully use us was certainly the hardest command; but on the

priedieu she vowed to the Virgin to fulfil it, and in a calmer mood than

before she bent over the boys to kiss them.

The next day glided by in painful anxiety, for Wolf did not return. The

following morning and afternoon also passed without bringing him. Not

until the rays of the setting sun were forcing their way through

the pinks and rose bushes with which Pyramus kept her window adorned

throughout the year, because she loved flowers, and the vesper bells

were chiming, did her friend return.

This time she had dressed her boys with her own hands, and when, through

the door which separated her from the entry, she heard Wolf greet them

with merry words, her heart grew lighter, and the swift thanksgiving

which she uttered blended with the dying notes of the bells.

Leading Conrad by the hand, and carrying the three-year-old youngest boy

in his arms, Wolf entered the room.

The child of a former love easily wins its way to the heart of the

man who has been obliged to resign her. Wolf’s eyes showed that he was

pleased with Barbara’s merry lads, and she thanked him for it by the

warmest reception.

Not until after he had said many a pleasant word to her about the little

boys, and jested with them in the manner of one who loves children, did

he resume his grave manner and confess that he could not make up his

mind to leave Barbara without a farewell. He was glad to find her in

the possession of such treasures, but his time was limited, and he must,

unfortunately, content himself with this last brief meeting.

While speaking, he rose to leave her; but she stopped him, saying in a

low tone: “Surely you know me, Wolf, and are aware that I do not always

persist in the resolves to which my hasty temper urges me. It shall not

be my fault if the peace of your Dona Magdalena’s soul remains clouded

longer, and so I release you from your vow so far as she is concerned.”

Then, for the first time since their meeting, the familiar, pleasant

“Wawerl” greeted her, and with tearful eyes she clasped his outstretched

hands.

Wolf had just told her that his time was short; but now he willingly

allowed himself to be persuaded to put down his sword and hat, and when

Frau Lamperi brought in some refreshments, he recognised her, and asked

her several pleasant questions.

It seemed as though Barbara’s change of mood had overthrown the barrier

which her stern refusal had raised between them. Calm and cheerful as

in former days he sat before her, listening while, in obedience to his

invitation, she told him, with many a palliation and evasion, about her

married life and the children. She made her story short, in order at

last to hear some further particulars concerning the welfare of her

distant son.

What Wolf related of the outward appearance of her John, to whose new

name, Geronimo, she gradually became accustomed, Barbara could complete

from her vivid recollection of this rare child. He had remained strong

and healthy, and the violinist Massi, his good wife, and their daughter

loved the little fellow and cared for him as if he were their own son

and brother.

The musician, it is true, lived plainly enough, but there was no want of

anything in the modest country house with the gay little flower garden.

Nor did the boy lack playmates, though they were only the children of

the farmers and townspeople of Leganes. Clad but little better than

they, he shared their merry, often rough games. Geronimo called the

violinist and his wife father and mother.

Then Barbara desired a more minute description of his dress, and when

Wolf, laughing, confessed that he wore a cap only when he went to

church, and on hot summer days he had even met him barefoot, she clasped

her hands in astonishment and dismay. Not until her friend assured her

that among the thin, dark-haired Spaniards, with their close-cropped

heads and flashing black eyes, he, with his fluttering golden curls and

free, graceful movements, looked like a white swan among dark-plumaged

ducks, did she raise her head with a contented expression, and the sunny

glance peculiar to her again reminded her friend of the Emperor’s son.

His lofty brow, Wolf said, he had inherited from his father, and

his mind was certainly bright; but what could be predicted with any

certainty concerning the intellectual powers of a boy scarcely seven

years old? The pastor Bautista Bela was training him to piety. The

sacristan Francisco Fernandez ought to have begun to teach him to read a

year ago; but until now Geronimo had always run away, and when he, Wolf,

asked the worthy old man, at Dona Magdalena’s request, whether he would

undertake to instruct him in the rudiments of Latin, as well as in

reading and writing, he shook his head doubtfully.

Here a smile hovered around the speaker’s lips, and, as if some amusing

recollection rose in his mind, he went on gaily: “He’s a queer old

fellow, and when I repeated my question, he put his finger against his

nose, saying: ‘Whoever supposes I could teach a young romper like that

anything but keeping quiet, is mistaken. Why? Because I know nothing

myself.’ Then the old man reflected, and added, ‘But--I shall not even

succeed in keeping this one quiet, because he is so much swifter than

I.”

“And is the Emperor Charles satisfied with such a teacher for his son?”

asked Barbara indignantly.

“Massi had described the sacristan to Don Luis as a learned man,”

replied Wolf. “But I have now told his Majesty of a better one.”

“Then you have talked to the Emperor?” asked Barbara, blushing.

Her friend nodded assent, and said mournfully: “My heart still aches

when I recall the meeting. O Wawerl! what a man he was when, like a

fool, I persuaded him in Ratisbon to hear you sing, and how he looked

yesterday!”

“Tell me,” she here interrupted earnestly, raising her hands

beseechingly.

“It can scarcely be described,” Wolf answered, as if under the spell

of a painful memory. “He could hardly hold himself up, even in the

arm-chair in which he sat. The lower part of his face seems withered,

and the upper-even the beautiful lofty brow--is furrowed by deep

wrinkles. At every third word his breath fails. One of his diseases, Dr.

Mathys says, would be enough to kill any other man, and he has more

than there are fingers on the hand. Besides, even now he will not take

advice, but eats and drinks whatever suits his taste.”

Barbara shook her head angrily; but Wolf, noticing it, said: “He is the

sovereign, and who would venture to withhold anything on which his will

is set? But his desires are shrivelling like his face and his body.”

“Is the man of the ‘More, farther,’ also learning to be content?” asked

Barbara anxiously. Wolf rose, answering firmly: “No, certainly not! His

eyes still sparkle as brightly in his haggard face as if he had by no

means given up the old motto. True, Don Luis declares that rest is the

one thing for which he longs, and you will see that he knows how to

obtain it; but what he means by it only contains fresh conflicts and

struggles. His ‘Plus ultra’ had rendered him the greatest of living

men; now he desires to become the least of the least, because the Lord

promises to make the last the first. I was received by the regent like

a friend. She confided to me that he often repeats the Saviour’s words,

‘Go, sell all that thou halt, and follow me.’ He is determined to cast

aside throne, sceptre, and purple, power and splendour, and Don Luis

believes that he will know how to gratify this desire, like every other.

What a resolution! But there are special motives concealed beneath it.

Nothing but death can bring repose to this restless spirit, and if he

finds the quiet for which he longs, what tasks he will set himself! Don

Philip promises, as an obedient son, to continue to wield the sceptre

according to the policy of the father who intrusts it to him.”

“And then?” asked Barbara eagerly.

“Then will begin the life in the imitation of Christ, which hovers

before him.”

“Here in the Brabant palace?” interposed Barbara incredulously.

“Here, where his neighbours, the brilliant nobles, enjoy life in noisy

magnificence; here, among the ambassadors, the thousand rumours from

the Netherlands, Italy, and Spain; here, where the battle against the

heretical and liberty-loving yearnings of the citizens never ceases--how

can he hope to find peace and composure here?”

“He is far from it,” Wolf eagerly interrupted. “‘Farewell till we meet

again at no distant day upon Spanish soil!’ were the parting words of my

gracious mistress. Will you promise secrecy?”

Barbara held out her hand with a significant glance; but Wolf, in a

lower tone, continued: “He expects to find in Spain the peaceful spot

for which he longs. There he will commend himself to the mercy of God,

and prepare for the true life which death is to him. There he expects to

be free from time-killing business, and to grant his mind that which he

has long desired and a thousand duties forced him to withhold. There, in

quiet leisure, he hopes to strive for knowledge and to penetrate deeply

into all the new things which were discovered, invented, created, and

improved during his reign, and of which he was permitted to learn far

too little thoroughly. He will endeavour to gain a better understanding

of what stirs, fires, angers, and divides the theologians. He desires to

pursue in detail the vast new discoveries of the astronomers, which even

amid the pressure of duties he had explained to him. His inquisitive

mind seeks to know the new discoveries of navigation, the distant

countries which it brought to view. He hopes to search into the plans

and works of the architects of fortifications and makers of maps and,

by no means least, he is anxious to become thoroughly familiar with the

inventions of mechanicians, which have so long aroused his interest.”

“He liked to talk to me about these things, and the power of the human

intellect, which now shows the true course of the sun and stars,”

Barbara interrupted with eager assent. “He often showed me the ingenious

wheelwork of his Nuremberg clocks. Once--I still hear the words--he

compared the most delicate with the thousandfold more sublime works of

God, the vast, ceaseless machinery of the universe, where there is no

misplaced spring, no inaccurately adjusted cog in the wheels. Oh, that

glorious intellect! What hours were those when he condescended to point

out to a poor girl like me the eternal chronometers above our heads,

repeat their names, and show the connection between the planets and the

course of earthly events and human lives! O Wolf! how glorious it

was! How my modest mind increased in strength! And when I listened

breathlessly, and he saw how I bowed in mute admiration before his

greatness and called me his dear child, his attentive pupil, and pressed

his lips to my burning brow, can I ever forget that?”

She sobbed aloud as she spoke and, overwhelmed by the grief which

mastered her, covered her face with her hands.

Wolf said nothing. Another had robbed him of the woman he loved, and the

greatest anguish of his life was not yet wholly conquered; but in this

hour he felt that he had no right to be angry with Barbara, for it was

to the greatest of great men that he had been forced to yield. He need

not feel it a disgrace to have succumbed to him.

“Wawerl!” he again exclaimed, “in spite of the pleasant peace which I

have found, I could envy you; for once, at least, the sun of love shone

with full radiance into your soul. Your experience proves how bright

and long is the afterglow if it is only real. This light, I believe, can

never be extinguished, no matter how dense is the gloom which shadows

life’s pathway.”

“Yes, indeed, Wolf,” she replied dully, with a sorrowful shake of the

head. “The gloomy night of which you speak has come, and it will last

on and on with unvarying darkness, from year to year, perhaps until the

end. What you call light is the remembrance of a single brief month

of May. Does it possess the power to render me happy? No, my friend,

a thousand times no! It only saves me from despair. But, in spite of

everything”--and here her eyes sparkled radiantly--“in spite of all

this, I would not change places with any one on earth; for, however dark

clouds may conceal the sun, when in quiet hours it once breaks through

them, Wolf, how brilliant everything grows around me!”

While speaking, she passed her hand across her brow and, as though

seized with shame for her frank confession, exclaimed: “But we will let

this subject drop. Only you must know one thing more. I shall never be

wholly impoverished. What the past gave me was too rich and great; what

I expect from the future is too precious for that. It is growing up in

distant Spain and, if Heaven accepted the great sacrifice which I once

made for the boy whom you call Geronimo, if he receives what I besought

for him at that time and on every returning day, then, Wolf, I shall

bear the burden of my woe like a light garland of rose leaves. Nay,

more. Charles will regain his youth sooner than--be it in love or

hate--he will ever forget me. This child guarantees that. It is and will

always remain a bridge between us. He, too, can not forget the son, and

if he does----”

“No, Barbara, no,” interrupted Wolf, carried away by her passionate

warmth. “The Emperor Charles is constantly thinking of his fair-haired

boy. No one has told me so; but if he seeks in Spain the rest for which

he longs, the thought of Geronimo--I am sure of that--is not the least

powerful cause which draws him thither.”

“Do you really think so?” asked Barbara with feverish anxiety.

“Yes,” he answered firmly. “This very morning he commanded Don Luis to

take the child from Leganes to Villagarcia and commit the education of

Geronimo to his wife, that he may find him what he expects and desires.”

Here he paused, and Barbara inquired uneasily, “And did he say nothing

of Geronimo’s mother--of me?”

Wolf shook his head with silent compassion, and then reluctantly

admitted: “I ventured to mention you, but, with one of those looks which

no one can resist--you know them--he ordered me to be silent.”

Barbara’s cheeks flamed with resentment and shame, but she only said,

smiling bitterly: “Grief is grief, and this new sorrow does not change

the old one. He knows best that I am something more than the poor

officer’s wife in the Saint-Gory quarter; but I look down, with just

pride, on all the others who believe me to be nothing else. Now

and always, even long after I am dead, the world will be obliged to

recognise the claim which elevates me far above the throng: I am the

mother of an Emperor’s son!”

She had uttered these words with uplifted head; but Wolf gazed in

wondering admiration into the beautiful face, radiant with proud

self-satisfaction.

He wished to leave her with this image before his soul, and therefore

hurriedly extended his hand and said farewell, after promising to fulfil

her entreaty never to come to Brussels without showing by a visit that

he remembered her.

CHAPTER XIV.

Pyramus Kogel, on his return, saw nothing of the deep impression

which Wolf’s visit had made upon Barbara. She merely mentioned it, and

carelessly said that the friend of her youth had been delighted with the

children.

The news that reached her ears about what was happening in the world

awakened her interest, it is true, but she took no trouble to ask for

tidings. When, the following year, her husband informed her that the

Emperor’s only son was about to conclude a second marriage, with Mary

Tudor, of England, and Charles was to commit to Philip the sovereignty

of the Netherlands, Spain, Naples, and Milan, she received it as if she

had already known it.

What she learned through the neighbours of the increasing number of

executions of obdurate heretics she deemed the wise measures of a devout

and conscientious government.

To the children Barbara was a careful mother. She rarely went to visit

the Dubois couple. Frau Traut either could not or was not allowed to

tell her anything about her child, except that he was thriving under the

maternal care of Dona Magdalena, to whom he had been confided.

The next winter, during which Charles reached his fifty-fourth year,

his health failed so noticeably that the physicians despaired of his

recovery. The Brabant palace was constantly besieged by people of all

classes inquiring about the condition of the still honoured and by many

deeply beloved monarch, and Barbara almost daily asked for news of him.

She usually entered the palace clad in black and closely veiled, for she

had many acquaintances among the attendants.

Adrian was inaccessible, because his master could not spare him a single

hour, but she saw his substitute, Ogier Bodart, who had served the

Emperor in Ratisbon. From him she learned how the sufferer passed

the night, how the day promised, and whether the physician’s opinion

awakened hope or fear. He even told her that his Majesty was occupying

himself with his last will, the payment of his debts, the arrangement of

the succession, and the choice of his burial place.

All this occupied Barbara’s mind so deeply, and the long waiting to

see Bodart often robbed her of so much time, that her housewifely and

maternal duties suffered, yet her patient husband endured it a long

while indulgently. But once, when he summoned up courage and cautiously

blamed her, she quietly admitted that he was right, but added that she

had never concealed from him the tie which bound her to the Emperor

Charles, and now that Death was stretching his hand toward him, she must

be permitted to obtain news of his welfare.

The strong man silenced his dissatisfaction, and placed no obstacles in

her way. He was grateful for the maternal solicitude which she showed

the children.

His kindly nature secretly approved of her spending a longer time in the

Cathedral of St. Gudule than usual, praying for the royal sufferer who

was so seriously ill. The man whom she could not forget was dying and,

moreover, was his sovereign.

Spring at last brought an improvement in the monarch’s health, and with

it Barbara’s return to her household duties.

A great change took place in the Dubois home during the spring after

Charles’s convalescence. The exhausting care of the Emperor had

made Adrian seriously ill and, in spite of the objections and bitter

complaints of his beloved and honoured master and his own desire to

continue in his service, he was forced to resign his office, which was

committed to his assistant Bodart.

One day Barbara met Dr. Mathys at the ex-valet’s sick-bed. The kindly

leech was amazed at her youthful appearance, and also at the obstinacy

of her throat ailment; but he encouraged her, for he had recently seen

marvellous effects produced by the old Roman baths at Ems, which were

not difficult to reach, and advised her to use them as soon as possible.

She must inform him of the result, if he was permitted to visit the

Netherlands again.

Then Barbara asked if he intended to leave the master whose life was

preserved by his skill; but he only shook his big head, smiling, and

said that the Emperor and he belonged together, like the soul and the

body, but whether his Majesty would remain in Brabant much longer was an

open question.

Barbara now remembered Wolf’s communication, and when the rumour spread

that the Emperor Charles was inclined to give up his rulership and

commit the sceptre and crown to his son Philip, she knew that this time

also Charles would execute the plan which he had matured after years of

consideration.

Through her friend she knew the motives which urged him to renounce

power and grandeur and retire to solitude; but to her it seemed certain

that, above all other reasons, longing for the fair, curly-headed boy,

his son and hers, had induced him to take this great and admirable step.

Gradually her maternal heart attributed to her John alone the desire of

the world-weary earthly pilgrim to lay aside the purple and return to

Spain.

Though Barbara at this time rarely left her own fireside, her husband

might often have wished that she would return to the conduct of the

previous winter, for he perceived the torturing anxiety which was

consuming her.

She could gaze for hours into vacancy, absorbed in profound meditation

and reveries, or play on the harp and lute, softly humming old songs to

herself. If at such times Pyramus asked, lovingly and modestly, that

he might not expose himself to an angry rebuff, what was burdening her

soul, his wife gave evasive answers or told him about the physician’s

advice, and described how different the lives of both would be if she

could regain the lost melody of her voice. But when he, who did not

grudge the woman he loved the very best of everything, joyfully offered

from his savings the sum necessary to send her and Frau Lamperi to Ems,

in order, if possible, to commence the cure at once, she asserted that,

for many reasons, she could not begin this summer the treatment which

promised so much. True, the bare thought that if might once again be

allotted to her to raise her heart in song filled her with the same

blissful hope as ever; but if the report, which constantly grew more

definite, did not deceive, the Emperor’s formal abdication was close at

hand, and to attend this great event seemed to her a duty of the heart,

a necessity which she could not avoid. In many a quiet hour she told

herself that Charles, when he had divested himself of all his honours

and become a mere man like the rest of the world, would draw nearer to

her boy, and through him to her. As an ordinary mortal, he would be able

to love, like every other father, the child that attracted him to Spain.

If in his life of meditation, far from the tumult of the world, the

strife for knowledge should lead him to look back into the past, and

in doing so he again recalled the days to which he owed his greatest

happiness, could he help remembering her and her singing?

How often she had heard that the knowledge of self was the highest

goal of thought to the philosopher, and as such Charles would certainly

retire into seclusion, and, as surely as she desired to be saved, he had

wronged her and must then perceive it. Probably there were thousands of

more important things in which he had to bury himself, but the boy would

remind him of her and the injury which he had done.

Never had she more deeply admired the grandeur of her imperial lover,

and with entire confidence she believed that this stupendous act of

renunciation would mark the beginning of a new life for her and her

child.

September and the first half of October passed like a fevered dream.

The abdication would certainly take place.

Charles had resolved to transfer all the crowns which adorned him to his

son Philip, and retire to a Spanish monastery.

Barbara also learned when and where the solemn ceremony was to take

place. Day after day she again mingled with the visitors to the palace,

and on the twenty-first of October she saw the eleven Knights of the

Golden Fleece, to whom he wished to restore the office of grand master,

enter the palace chapel.

How magnificently these greatest of all dignitaries were attired! how

all that she saw of this rare event in the palace chapel reminded her of

the solemn ceremonial at the Trausnitzburg at Landshut, and her resolve

to surrender her child, that it might possess the same splendour and

honours as its sister’s husband!

The wishes cherished at that time were still unfulfilled; but the father

would soon meet the son again, and the greater affection this peerless

boy aroused in Charles, the more surely he would know how to bestow on

him honours as high or higher than he gave the daughter of Johanna Van

der Gheynst.

Five days after the assembling of the Knights of the Golden Fleece, the

solemn ceremony of the abdication would take place in the great hall

which joined the palace chapel.

She must obtain admittance to it. Her husband did what he could to aid

her and soothe her excitement by the gratification of so ardent a wish,

but his efforts were vain.

Barbara herself, however, did not remain idle, and tried her fortune

with those of high and low estate whom she had known in the past.

She could not trust to forcing her way in on the day of the ceremony of

abdication, for every place in the limited space assigned to spectators

had been carefully allotted, and no one would be permitted to enter the

palace without a pass. When, after many a futile errand, she had been

refused also by the lord chamberlain, she turned her steps to Baron

Malfalconnet’s palace.

He had just swung himself into the saddle, and Barbara found him greatly

changed. The handsome major-domo had grown gray, his bright face was

wrinkled, and his smiling lips now wore a new, disagreeable, almost

cruel expression of mockery. He probably recognised his visitor at once,

but the meeting seemed scarcely to afford him pleasure. Nevertheless, he

listened to her.

But as soon as he heard what she desired, he straightened himself in the

saddle, and cried: “When I wished to present you to his Majesty--do you

remember?--at Ratisbon, you hastily wheeled your horse and vanished.

Now, when you desire to bid farewell to our sovereign lord, I dutifully

follow the example you then set me.”

As he spoke he put spurs to his horse and, kissing his hand to her,

dashed away. Barbara, wounded and disappointed, gazed after the pitiless

scoffer.

She had knocked in vain where she might hope for consideration; only the

young man of middle height who, carrying a portfolio under his arm, now

approached her and raised his black secretary’s cap, had been omitted,

though he, too, was one of the old Ratisbon friends, and his position

with the Bishop of Arras gave him a certain influence.

It was the little Maltese choir boy, Hannibal Melas, who owed so much to

her recommendation.

He asked sympathizingly what troubled her and, after Barbara had

confided to him what she had hitherto vainly desired, he referred

her unasked to his omnipotent master, who was to enter King Philip’s

service, and proposed that she should come to his office early the next

morning. Thence he would try to take her to the minister, who had by

no means forgotten her superb singing. His Eminence had mentioned her

kindly very recently in a conversation with the leech.

The following morning Barbara went to the great statesman’s business

offices. Hannibal was waiting for her.

It was on Saint Raphael’s day, which had attracted his fellow-clerks

to a festival in the country. Granvelle had given the others leave of

absence, but wished to keep within call the industrious Maltese, on

whose zeal he could always rely.

Without stopping his diligent work at the writing-desk, the secretary

begged Barbara to wait a short time. He would soon finish the draught

of the new edict for which his Eminence and the Councillor Viglius

were waiting in the adjoining chamber. The pictures on the walls of the

fourth room were worth looking at.

Barbara followed his advice, but she paused in the third room, for

through the partly open door she heard Granvelle’s familiar voice.

Curious to see what changes time had wrought, she peered through the

by no means narrow crack and overlooked the minister’s spacious office,

where he was now entirely alone with the Councillor Viglius.

The Bishop of Arras had scarcely altered since their last meeting,

only his appearance had become somewhat more stately, and his clever,

handsome face was fuller.

The Councillor Viglius, whom Barbara looked directly in the face, did

not exactly profit by the contrast with Granvelle, for the small figure

of the Frieslander barely reached to the chin of the distinguished

native of tipper Burgundy, but his head presented a singular and

remarkably vivid colouring. The perfectly smooth hair and thick beard

of this no longer young man were saffron yellow, and his plump face was

still red and white as milk and blood. It was easy to perceive by his

whole extremely striking appearance that he was rightly numbered among

the Emperor’s shrewdest councillors. Barbara had heard marvellous tales

of his learning, and it was really magnificent in compass and far more

important than his keen but narrow mind. This time the loquacious man

was allowing the Bishop of Arras to speak, and Barbara listened to his

words and the councillor’s answers with eager attention.

They were talking about the approaching abdication, and who knew the

Emperor Charles better than these far-seeing men, who were so near his

person?

If only she had not been obliged to believe this, for what she heard

from them showed in sombre lines what her heart had clothed with golden

radiance.

Everything Wolf had told her concerning the motives which induced

Charles to devote himself for the remainder of his life to quiet

contemplation seemed to her as credible as to the knight himself. But

he had received what he knew from Queen Mary of Hungary, who interpreted

her royal brother’s conduct like an affectionate sister, or thought it

advisable to represent it in the most favourable light.

It had not occurred to the warm-hearted, straightforward Wolf to doubt

the royal lady’s statement; but Barbara had regarded her friend’s

explanation of the Emperor’s wonderful act of renunciation as she would

have gazed at a citadel founded on a rock with towers rising to the

clouds, and in imagination had followed to his solitude the world-weary

philosopher, the father yearning for the child he had missed so long.

But how pitilessly what she heard here overthrew the proud edifice!

how cruelly it destroyed what she had deemed worthy of the greatest

admiration, what had rendered her happy and reanimated her wishes and

her hopes!

The wise Granvelle foresaw how the world would judge his master’s

abdication, and described it to the Frieslander. It bore a fateful

resemblance to the regent’s interpretation, her friend’s opinion, and

her own, and the shrewd Viglius accompanied this narrative with so

scornful a laugh that it made her heart ache.

“This is what will be said,” concluded the Bishop of Arras, summing

up his previous statements, “of the wise scorner of the world upon the

throne, who cast aside sceptre and crown in order, as a pious recluse,

to secure the salvation of his soul and, like a second Diogenes, to

listen to the wealth of his thoughts and investigate the nature of

things.”

“If only the pure spring from which the Greek dipped water in the hollow

of his hand was not changed to a cellar full of fiery wine, his hermit

fare to highly seasoned pasties, stuffed partridges, frozen fruit

juices, truffled pheasants, and such things! But everybody to his taste!

The world will be deceived. Unless you wish to blind yourself, your

Eminence, you will admit that I have seen correctly the most powerful

motives for this unequalled act.”

Barbara saw the bishop shake his head in dissent and, while she was

listening with strained ears to his explanation, Viglius, as if singing

bass to Granvelle’s tenor, repeated again and again at brief intervals,

in a low tone, the one word, “Debts,” while his green eyes sparkled,

sometimes as if asking assent, sometimes combatively.

He believed that the weight of financial cares was causing the Emperor

Charles’s abdication. Like a wise man, he said, he would place his own

burden of debt upon his son’s shoulders. His Majesty usually uttered

exactly the opposite of his real opinions, and therefore, in the outline

of his abdication speech, he twice emphasized how great a debt of

gratitude Don Philip owed him for the Heritage which while still alive

he bequeathed to him. True, besides the debts, crowns and kingdoms in

plenty passed to Charles’s successor; but the father, so long as he drew

breath, would not give up the decision of the most important questions

of government, and therefore this abdication, after all, was merely

an excellent means of divesting himself of burdensome obligations,

embellished with a certain amount of humbug.

The Bishop of Arras made no weighty protest against this severe speech;

nay, he even said, in a tone of assent, that the Emperor Charles’s

tireless intellect would continue to direct political events. Besides,

he could safely commit the execution of his conclusions and commands to

his obedient and dutiful heir.

“The world,” he added, “will not fare badly by this arrangement; but

you, Viglius, can not forget the religious liberty which his Majesty

promised to the Germans.”

“Not until the end of my life!” cried the Frieslander, his green eyes

flashing angrily.

Granvelle protested that this act of indulgence weighed heavily upon him

also; but at that time a refusal would have occasioned a new war,

which, according to human judgment, would have resulted in loss and

the establishment of heresy in the Netherlands. Maurice of Saxony, he

reminded the councillor, did not fall until a year later, and then as a

conqueror, on the battlefield.

His Majesty’s abdication, he went on with calm deliberation, was,

however, not exactly as Viglius supposed. The desire to rid himself

of troublesome debts had only hastened the Emperor’s resolution. The

principal motive for this momentous act he could state most positively

to be the increasing burden of his physical sufferings. To this was

added the feeling, usually found most frequently among gamblers, that

the time to win or, in his Majesty’s case, to succeed was past. Lastly,

Charles really did long for less disturbance from the regular course of

business, the reception of ambassadors, the granting of audiences.

“In short,” he concluded, “he wants to have an easier life, and,

besides, if the despatches and orders leave him time for it, to

occupy himself with his favourite amusements--his clocks and pieces

of mechanism. Finally, his sufferings remind him often enough of the

approach of death, and he hopes by religious exercises to secure his

place in the kingdom of heaven.”

“So far as politics and the table give him leisure for it,” interposed

the Frieslander. “He doesn’t seem inclined to make his penance too

severe. Quijada is now preparing the penitential cell, and it is neither

in the burning Thebais nor in the arid sands of the desert, but in one

of the most delightful and charming places in Spain. May our sovereign

find there what he seeks! You are aware of the paternal joys which await

him through the boy Geronimo?”

“Where did you learn that?” Granvelle interrupted in a startled tone,

and Barbara held her breath and listened with twofold attention.

“From his Majesty himself,” was the reply. “He intended his son for

the monastery. He longs to see him again, because he is said to be

developing magnificently; but he wished to know whether it would not

be safer to remove him from the world before his arrival, for, if

necessary, he could give up meeting him. If he should discover his

father’s identity, it might easily fill him with vanity, and in

Villagarcia he was learning to prize knightly achievements above the

service of the Most High. It would not do to leave him in the world;

unpleasant things might come from it. As King Philip’s sole heir was the

sickly Don Carlos----”

“His son Geronimo might aspire to the crown,” interrupted Granvelle. “He

expressed the same doubts to me also. What I heard of the child

induced me to plead that he might be allowed to grow up in the world

untrammelled. If any one understands how to defend himself against

unauthorized demands, it is Don Philip.”

“So I, too, think, and advised,” replied Viglius. “Poor boy! His father

of late holds on to thalers more than anxiously and, if I am correctly

informed, the education of his son has hitherto cost his Majesty no more

expense than the maintenance of the mother. Wise economy, your Eminence!

Or what shall it be called?”

“As you choose,” replied the bishop in an irritated tone. “What do you

know about the boy’s mother?”

“Nothing,” replied the Frieslander, “except what my friend Mathys told

me lately. He said that before she lost her voice she was a perfect

nightingale. She might recover it at Ems, and so the leech proposed to

the Emperor to give her a sum of money for this purpose.”

“And his Majesty?” asked Granvelle.

“Remained faithful to his habit of not sullying his reputation by

extravagance,” replied the Frieslander, laughing.

“Suffering, misfortune!” sighed Granvelle. “As a long period of rain

produces fungi in the woods, so this terrible pair calls to life one

pettiness after another in the rare man in whom once every trait of

character was great and glorious. I knew the boy’s mother. Many things

might be said of her, among them good, nay, the best ones. As to

the boy, his Majesty informed Don Philip of his existence. It was in

Augsburg. He does not seem at all suited for the monastic life, and

therefore I shall continue to strive to preserve him from it.”

“And if his Majesty decides otherwise?”

“Then, of course--” answered Granvelle, shrugging his shoulders. “But

the draught must be composed, and there are more important matters for

us to discuss.”

As he spoke he rang the bell on the table at his side, and Hannibal

obeyed his master’s summons. In doing so he passed Barbara, who started

as if bewildered when she heard him approach.

He went up to her in great surprise, but ere he could utter the first

words she clutched his arm, whispering: “I am going, Hannibal. His

Eminence did not entirely forget me. If he can receive me, send word to

my house.”

Scarcely able to control herself, Barbara set out on her way home.

The words she had heard had shaken the depths of her soul like an

earthquake.

The news that Charles intended to confine in a monastery the boy whom

she had given up to him that he might bestow upon him whatever lay

within his imperial power poisoned her joy in the future. How often this

man lead inflicted bleeding wounds upon her heart! Now he trampled it

under his cruel feet. Two convictions had lent her the strength not

to despair: she felt sure that his love for her could never have been

extinguished had the power of her art aided her to warm Charles’s heart,

and she was still more positive that the father would raise to splendour

and magnificence the boy whom she had given him.

And now?

He had refused the leech’s request to help her regain the divine gift to

which, according to his own confession, he owed the purest joys; and

her strong, merry child he, its own father, condemned to disappear and

wither in the imprisonment of a cloister. This must not be, and on her

way home she formed plan after plan to prevent it.

Pyramus attributed her sometimes depressed, sometimes irritable manner

to the disappointment of her wish.

What she had just learned and had had inflicted upon her filled her with

hatred of life.

Her two boys scarcely dared to approach their mother, who, unlike her

usual self, harshly rebuffed them.

At twilight Hannibal Melas appeared, full of joyous excitement.

Granvelle sent Barbara word that the doorkeeper Mangin would show her a

good seat. His Eminence desired to be remembered to her, and said that

only those who had been closely associated with his Majesty would be

admitted to this ceremony, and he knew that she ranked among the first

of these.

Barbara’s features brightened and, as she saw how happy it made the

Maltese to be the bearer of so pleasant a message, she forced herself to

give a joyous expression to her gratitude. In the evening, and during

a sleepless night, she considered whether she should make use of

the invitation. What she had expected for herself and her child from

Charles’s abdication had been mere chimeras of the brain, and what could

this spectacle offer her? She would only behold with her eyes what

she had often enough imagined with the utmost distinctness--the great

monarch divested of his grandeur and all his dignities.

But Granvelle’s message that she was one cf those who stood nearest to

the abdicating sovereign constantly echoed in her ears, and her absence

from this ceremony would have seemed to her unnatural--nay, an offence

against something necessary.

Her husband was pleased with the great minister’s kindness to his wife.

He had nothing to do in the palace, but he intended to look for the

children, who had gone there before noon with Frau Lamperi, that they

might get the best possible view of the approach of the princes and

dignitaries.

Barbara herself was to use a litter. The ex-’garde-robiere’ had helped

her put on her gala attire, and Pyramus assured his wife that every

one would consider her the handsomest and most elegant lady in the

galleries. She knew that he was right, and listened with pleasure,

deeply as resentment and disappointment burdened her soul.

Then the knocker on the door rapped. The litter-bearers had probably

come. But no! The Flemish maid, who had opened the door, announced that

a messenger was waiting outside with a letter which he could deliver

only to the master or the mistress.

Pyramus went into the entry, and his long absence was already making

Barbara uneasy, when he returned with bowed head and, after many words

of preparation, informed her that her father was very ill and, finally,

that apoplexy had put a swift and easy end to his life.

Then a great and genuine grief seized upon her with all its power.

Everything that the simple-hearted, lovable man, who had guarded

her child hood so tenderly and her girlhood with such solicitude and

devotion, had been to her, returned to her memory in all its vividness.

In him she had lost the last person whose right to judge her conduct she

acknowledged, the only one whom she had good reason to be sure cared for

her welfare as much as, nay, perhaps more than, his own.

The litter, Granvelle’s message, the Emperor’s abdication ceremony,

everything that had just wounded, angered, and disturbed her, was

forgotten.

She gently refused the consolation of her husband, who in the captain

had lost a dear friend and sincerely mourned his death, and entreated

him to leave her alone; but when her sons returned and joyously

described the magnificent spectacle on which they had feasted their eyes

outside of the palace, she drew them toward her with special tenderness,

and tried to make them understand that they would never again see the

good grandfather who had loved them all so dearly.

But the older boy, Conrad, only gazed at her wonderingly, and asked why

she was weeping; and the younger one did not understand her at all,

and went on talking about the big soldier who wanted to lift him on his

piebald horse. To the child death is only slumber, and life being awake

to new games and pleasures.

Barbara said this to her husband when he wished to check the merry

laughter of the little ones, and then went to her chamber.

There she strove to think of the dead man, and she succeeded, but with

the memory of the sturdy old hero constantly blended the image of the

feeble man who to-day was voluntarily surrendering all the gifts of

fortune which she--oh, how willingly! would have received for the son

whom he desired to withdraw from the world.

The next morning Hannibal Melas came to ask what had kept her from the

ceremony. He learned it in the entry from Frau Lamperi, and Barbara’s

tearful eyes showed him what deep sorrow this loss had caused her. Her

whole manner expressed quiet melancholy. This great, pure grief had come

just at the right time, flowing, like oil upon the storm-lashed waves,

over hatred, resentment, and all the passionate emotions by which she

had previously been driven to the verge of despair.

She did not repulse the witness of her lost happiness, and listened

attentively while Hannibal told her about the memorable ceremony which

he had attended.

True, his description of the lofty hall in the Brabant palace where it

took place, the chapel adjoining it, and the magnificent decorations of

flowers and banners that adorned it, told nothing new to Barbara. She

was familiar with both, and had seen them garlanded, adorned with flags

and coats of arms, and even witnessed the erection of the stage in the

hall and the stretching of the canopy above it.

The Emperor had appeared upon the platform at the stroke of three,

leaning upon his crutch and the shoulder of William of Orange. His son

Philip and the Queen of Hungary followed, and all took their seats

upon the gilded thrones awaiting them. The blithe, pleasant Archduke

Maximilian of Austria, the Duke of Savoy, who was expecting a great

winning card in the game of luck of his changeful life, the Knights

of the Golden Fleece, and the highest of the Netherland nobles, the

councillors, the governor, and the principal military officers also had

places upon the stage.

Barbara knew every name that Hannibal mentioned. It seemed as if she saw

the broken-down Emperor, his son Philip with his head haughtily thrown

back, his favourite, the omnipotent minister, Ruy Gomez, the Prince

of Eboli, who with his coal-black hair and beard would have resembled

Quijada if, instead of the soldierly frankness of the major-domo, an

uneasy, questioning expression had not lurked in his dark eyes, the

brilliant Bishop of Arras, who had again so kindly placed her under

obligation to him, and the Frieslander Viglius, who had dropped into her

soul the wormwood whose bitterness she still tasted, and whose motto,

“The life of mortals is a watch in the night,” seemed to flash from his

green eyes. Not a single woman had been admitted to the distinguished

assembly of the States-General, the city magistrates, and illustrious

invited guests, who as spectators sat on benches and chairs opposite

to the stage, and this placed the kindness of Granvelle, whom the

Netherland dignitaries were said to detest, in a still brighter light.

The ceremony had been opened by the great speech of Philibert of

Brussels, which the young Maltese described as a masterpiece of the

finest rhetorical art. At the close of this address a solemn silence

pervaded the hall, for the Emperor Charles had risen to take leave of

his faithful subjects.

One might have heard a leaf fall, a spicier walk, as, supported by the

arm of William of Orange, he raised the notes of his address and began

to read.

At this information Barbara remembered how Maurice of Saxony had

supported the Emperor at the May festival at Prebrunn. William of

Orange, too, was still young. She had often seen him, and what deep

earnestness rested on his noble brow! how open and pure was the glance

of his clear eyes, yet how penetrating and inexorably keen it could also

be! She had noticed this at the assembly of the Knights of the Golden

Fleece, when he looked at King Philip with bitter hate or certainly with

dislike and scorn. Was this man chosen to avenge Charles’s sins upon his

son and heir? Could the Prince of Orange be destined to deal with the

new king as Maurice of Saxony had treated his imperial father? Would the

resentment which, since the day before, had again filled her soul have

permitted her to prevent it had she possessed the power?

The Emperor’s speech had treated of his broken health and the necessity

of living in a milder climate. Then Don Philip had been described by his

father as a successor whose wisdom equalled his experience. This called

a smile to Barbara’s lips.

Philip was said to be an industrious, devout man, fond of

letter-writing, and full of intrigue, but only his father would venture

to compare him with himself, with Charles V.

He, the son, probably knew how vacant and lustreless his eyes were, for

he usually fixed them on the ground; and what fulness of life, what a

fiery soul had sparkled only a short time ago, when she saw him in the

distance, from those of the man whom she certainly was not disposed to

flatter!

Then the Emperor had reviewed his whole reign, mentioned how many wars

he had waged, how many victories he had won and, finally, had reminded

his son of the gratitude he owed a father who during his lifetime

bestowed all his possessions upon him and, as it were, descended into

the grave in order to make him earlier the heir of all his power and

wealth.

Now Barbara fancied that again--she knew not for what hundredth

time--the Frieslander’s exclamation, “Debts! debts!” rang in her ears,

and at the same time she thought of the boy in Spain who had here been

disinherited, and must be hidden in a monastery that the other son

of the same father, the diminutive upstart Philip, puffed up with

arrogance, might sleep more quietly. For one son the unjust man whom she

loved was ready to die before his last hour came, in order to give him

all that he possessed; for the other he could find nothing save a monk’s

cowl. Instead of the yearning for John, of which Wolf had spoken and

she, blind fool, believed, he thought of him with petty fears of the

claims by which he might injure his favoured brother. No warm impulse

of paternal tenderness stirred the breast of the man whose heart was

hardened, who understood how to divest himself of the warmest love as he

now cast aside the crown and the purple of royalty.

These torturing thoughts so powerfully affected Barbara that she only

half heard what Hannibal was saying about the Emperor’s admonition to

his son to hold fast to justice, law, and the Catholic Church. But when

Granvelle’s faithful follower, in an agitated tone, went on to relate

how Charles had besought the forgiveness of Providence for all the sins

and errors which he had committed, and added that he would remember all

who had rendered him happy by their love and obedience in every prayer

which he addressed to the Being to whom the remnant of his life should

be devoted, the ex-singer’s breath came quicker, her small hands

clinched, and the question whether she had failed in love and obedience

before he basely cast her off forced itself upon her mind, and with it

the other, whether he would also include in his prayers her whom he had

ill-treated and mortally insulted.

These thoughts lent her features so gloomy an expression that it would

have offended the Emperor Charles’s ardent admirer if he had noticed it.

But the scene which, with tears in his eyes, he now described absorbed

his attention so completely that he forgot everything around him and,

as it were, gazed into his own soul while picturing to himself and his

listener how the monarch, with a pallid, ashen countenance, had sunk

back upon his throne and wept like a child.

At this spectacle the whole assembly, even the sternest old general, had

been overwhelmed by deep emotion, and the spacious hall echoed with the

sobs and groans of graybeards, middle-aged men and youths, warriors and

statesmen.

Here the young man’s voice failed and, weeping, with unfeigned emotion

he covered his agitated face with his handkerchief.

When he regained his composure he saw, with a shade of disappointment,

that Barbara’s eyes had remained dry during the description of an event

in which he himself and so many stronger men had shed burning tears.

Yet, when Barbara was again alone she could not drive from her mind the

image of her broken-down, weeping lover. Doubtless she often felt moved

to think of him with deep pity; but she soon remembered the conversation

to which she had listened in the apartments of the Bishop of Arras, and

her belief in the genuineness of those tears vanished.

CHAPTER XV.

The winter came and passed. Instead of leaving the Netherlands, the

Emperor Charles remained nearly a year in Brussels. He lived in a modest

house in Lion Street and, although he had resigned the sovereignty,

nothing was done in the domain of politics to which he had not given his

assent.

Barbara, more domestic than ever before, was leading a dream life, in

which she dwelt more with her beloved dead and her child in Spain than

with her family at home. She thought of the boy’s father sometimes with

bitter resentment, sometimes with quiet pity. Outward circumstances

rendered it easier for her to conceal these feelings, for Pyramus

attributed the melancholy mood which sometimes overpowered her to grief

for her father.

Her husband left the settlement of the business connected with her

inheritance solely to her. There were many letters to be written and, as

she had become unfamiliar with this art, Hannibal faithfully aided her.

Dr. Hiltner, of Ratisbon, to whom, in spite of his heretical belief, she

intrusted the legal business of the estate, acted wisely and promptly in

her behalf. Thus the sale of the house which she had purchased for

the dead man, and the disposal of her father’s share in the Blomberg

business, brought her far more money than she had expected.

It seemed as though Fate desired to compensate her by outward prosperity

for the secret sorrow which, in spite of her husband’s affectionate

solicitude and the thriving growth of her two boys, she could not shake

off.

In one respect she regarded the money which this winter brought her as a

genuine blessing, for it seemed to invite her to go to Ems and do all

in her power for the restoration of her voice. The hoarseness was now

barely perceptible in her speech, and Dr. Mathys, whom she visited in

April, encouraged her, and told her of really marvellous cures wrought

by the famous old springs.

When May came and the trees and shrubs in leafy Brussels adorned

themselves with new buds, she could not help thinking more frequently,

as usual in this month, of her wasted love and of the man for whom it

had bloomed and who had destroyed it. So she liked to pass through Lion

Street in her walks, for it led her by his house. She might easily meet

him again there, and she longed to see his face once more before the

departure for Spain, which would remove him from her sight forever.

And behold! One sunny noon he was borne toward her in a litter. She

stopped as though spellbound, bowing profoundly; her glance as he passed

met his, and he waved his emaciated hand--yes, she was not mistaken--he

waved it to her.

For an instant it seemed as if a crimson rose had bloomed in the midst

of winter snows. She had been as sure that he had not forgotten her as

that she herself had not ceased to think of him.

Now her confidence was, as it were, confirmed by letter and seal, and

this made her happy.

The man in the litter had been only the wreck of the Charles whom she

loved; even the fiery light in his eyes, though not extinguished, had

appeared subdued and veiled. Other women would probably have thought him

repulsively plain, but what did she care for his looks? Each of them was

still a part of the other, for her image lived in his soul, as his dwelt

in hers.

Barbara did not take as long a walk as usual; but when she was again

approaching the house occupied by the abdicated sovereign, Dr. Mathys

came toward her. The expression of his broad, dignified face suited the

bright May morning; nay, she imagined that his step was lighter and less

sedate than usual.

During the whole decade which they had known each other he had never

flattered her, but to-day, after the first greeting, he began his

conversation with the question:

“Do you know, Frau Barbara, that you were never more beautiful and

charming than just at this very time? Perhaps it is the mourning which

is so becoming to your pink-and-white complexion and the somewhat

subdued lustre of your golden hair. But why do I feed your vanity with

such speeches? Because I think that our gracious lord, who for many a

long day has not bestowed even the least side glance upon any of your

bewitching sex, noticed the same thing. And now you will presently be

obliged to admit that the old messenger of bad news in Ratisbon, whom

you requited so ill for his unpleasant errand, can also bring good

tidings; for the Emperor Charles--in spite of the abdication, he will

always be that until he, too, succumbs to the power which makes us all

equal--his Majesty sends you his greetings, and the message that

he desires to do what he can to restore to you the art in which you

attained such rare mastery. He places at your disposal--this time, at

least, he was not economical--a sum which will take you to the healing

springs four or five times, nay, oftener still.”

Barbara had listened thus far, speechless with joyful surprise. If it

was Charles to whom she owed her recovery, the gift of song which it

restored would possess tenfold value for her, if that was conceivable.

She was already beginning to charge the leech to be the bearer of her

gratitude and joy, but he did not let her finish, and went on to mention

the condition which his Majesty attached to this gift.

Barbara must never mention it to any one, and must promise the physician

to refrain from all attempts to thank him either in person or by letter

in short, to avoid approaching him in any way.

The old physician had communicated this stipulation--which his royal

patient had strictly associated with the gift--to Barbara in the

emphatic manner peculiar to him, but she had listened, at first in

surprise, then with increasing indignation. The donation which, as a

token of remembrance and kind feeling, had just rendered her so happy,

now appeared like mere alms. Nay, the gift would make her inferior to

the poorest beggar, for who forbids the mendicant to utter his “May God

reward you”?

Charles kept her aloof as if she were plague-stricken. Perhaps it was

because he feared that if he saw her once he might desire a second and a

third meeting. But no matter. She would accept no aid at the cost of so

severe an offence to her pride, least of all when it came from the man

who had already wounded her soul often and painfully enough.

The startled physician perceived what was passing in her mind, and when,

not passionately as in her youth, but with cool composure, she requested

Dr. Mathys to tell his master that it would be as impossible for her to

accept a gift for which she could not express her thanks as to give alms

without wishing well to the recipient, the leech eagerly endeavoured to

persuade her to use the sum bestowed according to the donor’s wish. But

Barbara firmly persisted in her refusal, and when she parted from the

old man he could not be angry with her, for, as in the garden of the

little Prebrunn castle, he could not help saying to himself that the

wrong was not wholly on the side of the independent young woman.

The result in this case was the usual one when the weaker party succeeds

in maintaining itself against the superior power of the stronger.

Barbara set out on her way home with her head proudly erect, but she

soon asked herself whether this victory was not too dearly purchased.

In a few months John was to meet his father, and then might there not be

cause to fear that the opposition which she, his mother, had offered to

the Emperor, in order to escape an offence to her own pride, would prove

an injury to the son? She stopped, hesitating; but after a brief period

of reflection, she continued her walk. What she had done might vex the

monarch, but it must rather enhance than lower her value in his eyes,

and everything depended upon that. Charles would open the path to high

honours and royal splendour to the son of a haughty mother rather than

to the child of a narrow-minded woman, who would receive a gift without

being suffered to express her thanks.

She had done right, and rejoiced that this time she had obeyed the voice

of her imperious soul. She no longer desired to meet again the man whom

she loved. Her wish to look into his eyes once more before his death or

hers was fulfilled, and his glance, which had certainly been the last

that he could give her, had expressed the kind feeling and forgiveness

for which she had secretly yearned. So what he had done was surely not

intended to wound her. She understood his desire to obtain peace of mind

and his fear of entering into communication with her again, and from

this time it once more became a necessity to her to include him in her

prayers.

She left her home with a lighter heart, better satisfied with herself

than she had been for years. The Emperor Charles could not help thinking

of her now as she desired. The love which she had never wholly withdrawn

was again his, and the feeling of belonging to him exalted her pride and

brightened her clouded soul.

Frau Lamperi accompanied her, and marvelled at her mistress’s happy

mood. Besides, the Ems waters and the excellent advice of the physician

to whose care she intrusted herself exerted a beneficial influence upon

her ailment.

Her mourning garb prevented her from taking any part in the gay life of

the watering-place, but she found pleasure in watching it.

When she returned to Brussels, Pyramus thought she looked as young as in

her girlhood, and every wish that her husband fancied he could read in

her eyes was gratified with loving eagerness.

But the preparations for war against France allowed him only a short

time to remain in Brussels, and during his absence Barbara enjoyed

unlimited freedom.

The Emperor had sailed for Spain, Queen Mary had retired from the

regency, and Duke Emanuel Philibert of Savoy had taken it in her place.

King Philip remained in the Netherlands, and it was said in his praise

that he showed the boundless arrogance characteristic of him in a less

offensive way, and had acquired more affable manners.

Barbara often longed to seek an audience with him.

But what would it avail?

Philip was perhaps the very person who would be glad to have his

half-brother disappear in a monastery.

Yet the yearning to hear some news of her child would not be silenced.

Of the distant Emperor, who was said to be near his end, and spent his

days and sleepless nights in the monastery of San Yuste in prayer and

severe mortification, as the most pious of monks, she thought with

sympathizing affection.

The following year Barbara went to Ems again, this time no longer in

mourning robes, but scarcely less magnificently attired than many a

Rhenish noble’s wife, who was also seeking health and amusement there.

The property she had inherited, and which the conscientious Pyramus

would not touch, and Frau Lamperi’s skilful fingers had accomplished

this. Though the materials which she selected were not the most costly,

her aristocratic bearing made them appear valuable. She still possessed

the pearl necklace and other ornaments of more prosperous days, and on

festal occasions they did not remain in a chest.

She by no means lacked notice, partly on her own account, partly in

consequence of the conversations with which Granvelle, who visited the

springs for a short time, honoured her, while he kept entirely aloof

from all the other guests. This favour on the part of so famous and

powerful a statesman induced many of the most aristocratic ladies and

nobles to seek her, and many who had been attracted solely by curiosity

were charmed with the entertaining sprightliness of the beautiful woman,

and admitted her to their very exclusive circle.

This time the springs proved still more beneficial than when she first

used them, and the hope of soon being able to exercise her beloved art

again gained new and solid foundation.

This occupied a large share of her thoughts, but a still greater one

was filled with the yearning for her John, of whom, in spite of many

inquiries, she could hear nothing.

When, in her quiet home life, the monotony of her days oppressed her

more heavily, she often remembered Ems, and the pleasures and attention

which the next summer there would bring her. Now that the great,

passionate emotions which had been devoted to others were at rest,

she began to think more of her own person. It seemed desirable to show

herself to advantage, and though she longed for her recovery above all

for the sake of her art and the pleasure which its exercise afforded

her, she was already secretly thinking how she could use it to restore

and obtain satisfaction for her paralyzed self-esteem.

In consequence of the victory of St. Quentin, Brussels was filled

with festal joy; but Barbara took very little part in the numerous

festivities which followed one another, and again went to Ems.

When she returned, much benefited, her first visit was to the Dubois

house in the park. Unfortunately, it was futile; but when, a few weeks

before the battle of Gravelines, she repeated it for the second time,

she met the couple, now advancing in years, out of doors, and saw that

some good fortune had come to them.

Usually she had always been received here with a certain shade of

embarrassment, but to-day her coming seemed to please Herr Adrian. From

the great arm-chair, which he now never left, he held out his hand to

her, and Frau Traut’s merry eyes looked a glad welcome.

After the first greetings, they eagerly expressed their joyful

amazement at the clear tones of her voice. Then Frau Dubois exchanged

a significant glance with her husband, and now Barbara learned that a

letter had arrived from San Yuste that very morning, which contained

little except pleasant news of his Majesty and John.

While speaking, Adrian drew from his doublet the precious missive,

showed it to the young wife as cautiously as a fragile ornament which

we are reluctant to let pass out of our hands, and said in an agitated

voice:

“The writer is no less a personage than Dona Magdalena de Ulloa. May

Heaven reward her for it!”

Barbara gazed beseechingly into his wrinkled face, and from the inmost

depths of her heart rose the cry: “Oh, let me see it, for I--you know

it--I am his mother!”

“So she is,” said the old man in a tone of assent, nodded his long head,

whose hair was now snow-white, and glanced questioningly at his wife.

The answer was an assent.

Adrian clasped his chin--during the period of his service he had always

worn it smooth-shaven, but the white stubble of a full beard was

now growing on it--in his emaciated hand, and asked Barbara if she

understood Spanish.

Her knowledge of it was very slight; but Frau Traut, who, like her

husband, had mastered it during the long years of intercourse with the

Castilian court, now undertook to put the contents of the letter into

German.

This was not difficult, for she had already been obliged to read it

aloud three times to Adrian, who could no longer decipher written

characters.

The address was not omitted; it had pleased them both. It ran as

follows:

“To his Majesty’s good and faithful servant, Adrian Dubois, from his

affectionate friend of former days, Dona Magdalena de Ulloa, wife of Don

Luis Mendez Quijada, Lady of Villagarcia.”

Frau Trout read these noble names aloud to Barbara proudly, as if they

were her own; but before she went on Adrian interrupted--

“As to friendship, you may think, Frau Barbara, that Dona Magdalena is

showing me far too much honour in using those words; but I would still

give my right hand for that lovely creature with her kindly soul. When,

just after Don Luis married her, his Majesty took her young husband

away, she entreated me most earnestly to look after him, and I could

sometimes be of assistance. To be sure, we broke many a piece of bread

together in war and peace in the same service. Ah, Frau Barbara! I am

far better off here than I deserve to be; but sometimes my heart is

ready to break when I think of my Emperor, and that I must leave the

care of him to others.”

“But it is hard enough for the major-domo and his Majesty to do without

you,” said Frau Traut importantly. “Don Luis, the letter says, would

gladly have written with his own hand, but he had not a single leisure

moment; for, since Adrian had gone, he was obliged to be at hand to

serve his Majesty by day as well as by night. My husband’s successor,

Bodart, whom he trained for the service, is skilful and makes every

effort, but he can not replace Adrian to his suffering master.”

Then Frau Traut looked more closely at the letter, and began to

translate its contents.

“Of course,” she began, “San Yuste is not like Brussels; but if they

think there that his Majesty lives like a monk and submits to the rules

of the monastery, they are misinformed.”

Here she lowered the sheet; but Barbara’s cheeks were glowing with

impatient interest, and she exclaimed with urgent warmth: “Oh, please,

read on! But where--it is probably in the letter--where is our child?”

“One thing after the other, as the letter communicates it,” replied the

translator in a reproving tone; but her husband nodded soothingly to

Barbara, and said:

“Only this first: Our John is near his father, and there is something

especially good about him toward the end. Dona Magdalena is a true

Castilian--first the King, then her husband, then the others according

to their rank. It is different here and in your country. Patience and

you, Frau Barbara, have been bad friends ever since I knew you.”

Barbara’s sorrowful smile confirmed this statement, and when Frau Traut

at last went on, the tone of her voice betrayed how little she liked

interruptions just now.

“You were informed of his Majesty’s safe landing at Quiposcoa. It was

pitiful to see how the people in his train who did not belong to the

number of those who were to accompany him to Jarandilla behaved at the

parting from their beloved master. The body-guards flung their halberds

on the pavement, and there were plenty of tears and lamentations. On

St. Blasius’s day--[February 3, 1557]--his Majesty at last entered

San Yuste. Don Luis, as you know, had gone before to get the house in

readiness for his master. One could scarcely imagine a pleasanter spot,

for there is no greener valley than that of San Yuste in the whole range

of the Carpetano Mountains, nay, perhaps in all Spain. It is difficult

to describe how everything is growing and blossoming here now, in the

month of May. The little garden of the house is well kept and full of

beautiful orange trees. While blossoming, they exhale the most exquisite

perfume, and his Majesty enjoys the delicious fragrance which the wind

bears to him.

“In your noisy Brussels it is hard to imagine how quiet it can be here,

dear Senor Adrian. Nothing is to be heard save the carol of a bird, the

rippling of a clear stream flowing swiftly through the valley, and at

intervals the distinct notes of the little bells and cymbals upon the

clocks which his Majesty brought with him. Even their ticking is often

audible. At certain hours the ringing of the monastery bells blends

solemnly and softly with the silence. The Hieronymites in the monastery

are pious monks. His Majesty sometimes listens to their choir. Its music

is very fine since Sir Wolf Hartschwert, whom you also know, has taken

charge of it.

“From all this, you will perceive that the master, with whom your

faithful soul doubtless often dwells, is supplied--restricted by no

monastic discipline--with whatever suits his taste. He frequently

devotes himself for hours to religious exercises, and also retires

to the black-draped room with the coffin, which you know; but the old

industry and secular cares pursued him here. Mounted messengers come and

go continually, but they are not allowed to remain near the house.

“Even in Brussels he can scarcely have written and answered more letters

than he does here.

“If only the body would prosper as well as the mind. That is as active

and alert as ever. But the body--the body! O Senor Adrian! I fear that

the end is not far distant, although our royal sufferer looks better

than at his arrival.

“‘The eating!’ Dr. Mathys complains; but you know well enough how that

is.

“Three days have passed since I began this letter. You are aware of most

of what concerns your beloved master; now for my husband.

“He has never had service so arduous as here, for the grand prior, Don

Luis de Avila, is nothing to his Majesty except a dear old brother in

arms, with whom he is fond of talking about the past. Everything rests

on my poor husband. He said, a short time ago, that he would no longer

endure playing the host to everybody who comes to San Yuste, being agent

for everybody in Spain who desires anything from the Emperor Charles,

and at the same time constantly caring for the person of the sick

sovereign. This life, he thinks, may suit a person who has taken

leave of his property and the world, but he still clings to both, and

especially to me, the poor wife who has been parted from him so long. He

has served the Emperor twenty-five years, and during this time he lost

all his brothers in the war. The estates came to him, and how long they

have already been deprived of the master’s eye!

“Don Luis told the Emperor Charles all this, yet he refused him leave

of absence to go to Villagarcia. Instead, I was obliged to move near

my husband, and am now living with Geronimo, in the wretched village of

Cuacos, which is easily reached from San Yuste. There I finally arrived

with the boy whom the Virgin, in her inexhaustible mercy, gave to me,

a poor, childless woman, to make me happy, although on his account I

wronged my lord and husband by a sinful suspicion.

“Here I must begin my letter for the third time.

“It was fortunate that Geronimo left Massi and Leganes, for he was

allowed to grow up there like a little savage. Before learning to obey,

he was permitted to command.--No one opposed him, so in Villagarcia the

first thing necessary was to accustom him to discipline, obedience, and

the manners of the nobles. The trouble was not great, and how richly the

boy rewarded it! He is now in his twelfth year, and how your good wife

would stare, Adrian, if she could see her nursling again! Do not suppose

that it is blind partiality when I say that few handsomer lads could

be found in all King Philip’s dominions. His figure is slender and only

slightly above middle height; but how erect and noble is his bearing,

how symmetrically his pliant form is developing! His delicately cut

features and large blue eyes glow with the bold courage which fills his

soul, and which he displays in riding, hunting, and fencing. He still

has his wealth of fair, waving locks. Among a thousand other boys no one

will overlook him. Don Luis, too, admits that he was born to dignity

and honour. Every chivalrous and royal virtue is in his blood. Even his

mother could not sully it.”

Here Frau Traut paused to look at Barbara, who had listened, panting for

breath.

She was sorry that she had not omitted the last sentence, but in the

zeal of translating it had unconsciously escaped her lips, and, as she

found no softening word, she went on:

“Geronimo has become a dear child to me. He thinks that I am his own

mother, and clings to me with filial affection. To lead such a son to

this august father was the greatest joy that Heaven has bestowed upon

me.

“Dressed as my page, he rode with me to Jarandilla to meet his Majesty.

He was to present to the imperial master, of whose near relationship

he had no idea, a little basket filled with beautiful oranges from our

garden in Villagarcia, which you know.

“The young horseman, who understands how to wheel his steed, swung

himself from the saddle close beside his Majesty, bent the knee with

noble grace, raised his little plumed hat, and, pressing his left hand

upon his heart, presented the little gift to his sovereign and master.

As the weather was mild, the latter sat in an open sedan chair, and when

he saw Geronimo he scanned him with the keen glance of the ruler, and

then looked inquiringly at my husband. Don Luis nodded the answer which

he desired to receive, and a bright smile flitted over his emaciated,

corpselike features. Then he accepted the oranges, stroked his son’s

curls, addressed a few questions to him, which he answered modestly but

aptly, and then called to my husband, ‘This boy must remain near me.’

“Oh, what pleasure all this gave me! Now Geronimo goes in and out of his

Majesty’s apartments freely, and my reason for writing this letter is an

incident I happened to witness, and which will please you, Adrian, and

your good wife, as it filled my heart with fervent gratitude. So listen:

When the Emperor meets Geronimo in the presence of strangers, he seems

to take neither more nor less notice of him than of the other pages who

come to San Yuste. Only he often calls him, asks a question, or gives

him some trivial commission. Others would scarcely notice it, but I see

the brightening of his eyes as he does so.

“Recently I looked through the open door which leads from his Majesty’s

work-room into the garden, and what did the Virgin permit me to

behold?--Geronimo, who was alone with the Emperor, picked up a sheet of

paper that had fluttered to the ground and handed it to him. Then

the Emperor Charles suddenly raised his poor hands oh, how they are

disfigured by the gout!--laid them on the boy’s temples, drew his head

nearer, and kissed his brow and eyes! Charles V, the fugitive from the

world, the man crushed by sorrow and disappointment, did that! This

kiss--Don Luis believes it also--sealed the son’s acceptance into his

father’s heart.”

Here Frau Traut let the sheet fall. Her voice had failed during the last

sentences; now she exclaimed amid her tears, “The Emperor’s kiss!” and

her husband, no less deeply stirred by emotion, cried, “The Emperor

Charles--no one knows as well as I what that means--the Emperor Charles,

whose heart compels him to kiss some one.”

Here Barbara rose with flushed cheeks, panting for breath.

She felt as if she must cry aloud to these good people: “What do you

know about my lover’s kiss? I, I alone, not you, you poor, good man,

could tell you. Insignificant and wretched as I may be, no woman on

earth can boast of prouder memories, and now that he has also kissed his

child and mine, everything is forgiven him.”

Silently, with hurrying breath, she stood before the agitated couple,

who were waiting for some remark, some outburst of gratitude and

delight; but there was only a quivering of the lips, and her blue eyes

flashed with a fiery light.

What was the matter with her?

Frau Train turned anxiously to her husband to ask, in a whisper, whether

joy had turned the poor young mother’s brain; but Barbara had already

recovered her composure, and, passing her hand quickly across her brow,

murmured softly, “It came over me too strongly.”

Then she thanked them with earnest warmth; yet when Frau Traut praised

Dona Magdalena’s heavenly goodness, she nodded assent, it is true; but

she soon took her leave--she felt paralyzed and dazzled.

CHAPTER XVI.

On the way home Barbara often pressed her left hand with her right to

assure herself that she was not dreaming.

This time she found her husband in the house. At the first glance

Pyramus saw that something unusual had happened; but she gave him no

time to question her, only glanced around to see if they were alone, and

then cried, as if frantic: “I will bear it no longer. You must know it

too. But it is a great secret.” Then she made him swear that he, too,

would keep it strictly, and in great anxiety he obeyed.

He, like Barbara’s father, had supposed that the Emperor’s son had

entered the world only to leave it again. Barbara’s “I no longer have a

child; it was taken from me,” he had interpreted in the same way as the

old captain, and, from delicacy of feeling, had never again mentioned

the subject in her presence.

While taking the oath, he had been prepared for the worst; but when his

wife, in passionate excitement, speaking so fast that the words fair

tumbled over one another, told him how she had been robbed of her boy;

how his imperial father had treated him; how she had longed for him;

what prayers she had uttered in his behalf; how miserable she had been

in her anxiety about this child; and, now, that Dona Magdalena’s letter

permitted her to cherish the highest and greatest hopes for the boy, the

tall, strong man stood before her with downcast eyes, like a detected

criminal, his hand gripping the edge of the top of the table which

separated her from him.

Barbara saw his broad, arched chest rise and fall, and wondered why his

manly features were quivering; but ere she had time to utter a single

soothing word, he burst forth: “I made the vow and will be silent; but

to-morrow, or in a year or two, it will be in everybody’s mouth, and

then, then My good name! Honour!”

Fierce indignation overwhelmed Barbara, and, no longer able to control

herself, she exclaimed: “What did it matter whether Death or his father

snatched the child from me? The question is, whether you knew that I am

his mother, and it was not concealed from you. Nevertheless, you came

and sought me for your wife! That is what happened! And--you know

this--you are as much or little dishonoured by me, the mother of the

living child, as of the dead one. Out upon the honour which is harmed

by gossip! What slanderous tongues say of me as a disgrace I deem the

highest honour; but if you are of a different opinion, and held it when

you wooed me, you would be wiser to prate less loudly of the proud word

‘honour,’ and we will separate.”

Pyramus had listened to these accusations and the threat with trembling

lips. His simple but upright mind felt that she was right, so far as he

was concerned, and she was more beautiful in her anger than he had seen

her since the brilliant days of her youthful pride. The fear of losing

her seized his poor heart, so wholly subject to her, with sudden power

and, stammering an entreaty for forgiveness, he confessed that the

surprise had bewildered him, and that he thought he had showed in the

course of the last ten years how highly, in spite of people’s gossip, he

prized her. He held out his large honest hand with a pleading look as he

spoke, and she placed hers in it for a short time.

Then she went to church to collect her thoughts and relieve her

overburdened heart. Boundless contempt for the man to whom she was

united filled it; yet she felt that she owed him a debt of gratitude,

that he was weak only through love, and that, for her children’s sake,

she must continue to wear the yoke which she had taken upon herself.

His existence henceforth became of less and less importance to her

feelings and actions, especially as he left the management of their two

boys to her. He had reason to be satisfied with it, for she provided

Conrad with the best instruction, that the might choose between the

army and the legal profession; his younger brother she intended for the

priesthood, and the boy’s inclination harmonized with her choice.

The fear that the Emperor Charles might yet commit the child she loved

to the monastery never left her. But she thought that she might induce

Heaven to relinquish its claim upon her John, whom, moreover, it seemed

to have destined for the secular life, by consecrating her youngest

child to its service.

While she did not forget her household, her mind was constantly in

Spain. Her walks were usually directed toward the palace, to inquire how

the recluse in San Yuste was faring, and whether any rumour mentioned

her imperial son.

After the great victory gained by Count Egmont against the military

forces of France, eleven months after the battle of St. Quentin, there

was enough to be seen in Brussels. The successful general was greeted

with enthusiastic devotion. Egmont’s name was in every one’s mouth, and

when she, too, saw the handsome, proud young hero, the idol, as it

were, of a whole nation, gorgeous in velvet, silk, and glittering gems,

curbing his fiery steed and bowing to the shouting populace with a

winning smile, she thought she caught a glimpse of the future, and

beheld the predecessor of him who some day would receive similar homage.

Why should she not have yielded to such hopes? Already there was

a rumour that the daughter of the Emperor and that Johanna Van der

Gheynst, who had been Charles’s first love, Margaret of Parma, her own

son’s sister, had been chosen to rule the Netherlands as regent.

Why should less honours await Charles’s son than his daughter?

But the festal joy in the gay capital was suddenly extinguished, for in

the autumn of the year that, in March, had seen Ferdinand, the Emperor’s

brother, assume the imperial crown, a rumour came that the recluse of

San Yuste had closed his eyes, and a few days after it was verified.

It was Barbara’s husband who told her of the loss which had befallen her

and the world. He did this with the utmost consideration, fearing the

effect of this agitating news upon his wife; but Barbara only turned

pale, and then, with tears glittering in her eyes, said softly, “He,

too, was only a mortal man.”

Then she withdrew to her own room, and even on the following day saw

neither her husband nor her children. She had long expected Charles’s

death, yet it pierced the inmost depths of her being.

This sorrow was something sacred, which belonged to her and to her

alone. It would have seemed a profanation to reveal it to her unloved

husband, and she found strength to shut it within herself.

How desolate her heart seemed! It had lost its most distinguished object

of love or hate.

Through long days she devoted herself in quiet seclusion to the memory

of the dead, but soon her active imagination unfolded its wings again,

and with the new grief mingled faint hopes for the boy in Spain, which

increased to lofty anticipations and torturing anxiety.

The imperial father was dead. What now awaited the omnipotent ruler’s

son?

How had Charles determined his fate?

Was it possible that he still intended him for the monastic life, now

that he had become acquainted with his talents and tastes?

Since Barbara had learned that her son had won his father’s heart, and

that the Emperor, as it were, had made him his own with a kiss, she

had grown confident in the hope that Charles would bestow upon him the

grandeur, honours, and splendour which she had anticipated when she

resigned him at Landshut, and to which his birth gave him a claim.

But her early experience that what she expected with specially joyful

security rarely happened,--constantly forced upon her mind the fear that

the dead man’s will would consign John to the cloister.

So the next weeks passed in a constant alternation of oppressive fears

and aspiring hopes, the nights in torturing terrors.

All the women of the upper classes wore mourning, and with double

reason; for, soon after the news of the Emperor’s death reached

Brussels, King Philip’s second wife, Mary Tudor, of England, also died.

Therefore no one noticed that Barbara wore widow’s weeds, and she was

glad that she could do so without wounding Pyramus.

A part of the elaborate funeral rites which King Philip arranged in

Brussels during the latter part of December in honour of his dead father

was the procession which afforded the authorities of the Brabant capital

an opportunity to display the inventive faculty, the love of splendour,

the learning, and the wit which, as members of flourishing literary

societies, they constantly exercised. In the pageant was a ship with

black sails, at whose keel, mast, and helm stood Hope with her anchor,

Faith with her chalice, and Love with the burning heart. Other similar

scenic pieces made the sincerity of the grief for the dead questionable,

and yet many real tears were shed for him. True, the wind which swelled

the sails of the sable ship bore also many an accusation and curse;

among the spectators of the procession there were only too many whose

mourning robes were worn not for the dead monarch, but their own nearest

relatives, whom his pitiless edicts had given to the executioner as

readers of the Bible or heterodox.

These displays, so pleasing to the people of her time and her new home,

were by no means great or magnificent enough for Barbara. Even the most

superb show seemed to her too trivial for this dead man.

She was never absent from any mass for the repose of his soul, and she

not only took part outwardly in the sacred ceremony, but followed it

with fervent devotion. As a transfigured spirit, he would perceive how

she had once hated him; but he should also see how tenderly she still

loved him.

Now that he was dead, it would be proved in what way he had remembered

the son whom, in his solitude, he had learned to love, what life path

John had been assigned by his father.

But longingly as Barbara thought of Spain and of her boy, often as

she went to the Dubois house and to the regent’s home to obtain news,

nothing could be heard of her child.

Many provisions of the imperial will were known, but there was no

mention of her son. Yet Charles could not have forgotten him, and Adrian

protested that it would soon appear that he had not omitted him in his

last will, and this was done in a manner which indicated that he knew

more than he would or could confess.

All this increased Barbara’s impatience to the highest degree, and

induced her to watch and question with twofold zeal. On no account would

she have left the capital during this period of decision, and, though

her husband earnestly entreated her to go to the springs, whose waters

had proved so beneficial, she remained in Brussels.

In August she saw King Philip set out for Spain, and Margaret of Parma,

her son’s sister, assume the government of the Netherlands as regent.

On various occasions she succeeded in obtaining a near view of the

stately-lady, with her clever; kindly and, spite of the famous down

on her upper lip, by no means unlovely features, and her attractive

appearance gave Barbara courage to request an audience, in order to

learn from her something about her child. But the effort was vain, for

the duchess had had no news of the existence of a second son of her

father; and this time it was Granvelle who prevented the regent from

receiving the woman who would probably have spoken to her of the boy

concerning whose fate King Philip had yet reached no determination.

Barbara spent the month of October in depression caused by this

fresh disappointment, but it, too, passed without bringing her any

satisfaction.

It seemed almost foolish to lull herself further with ambitious

expectations, but the hope a mother’s heart cherishes for her child does

not die until its last throb; and if the Emperor Charles’s will did not

give her John his rights, then the gracious Virgin would secure them, if

necessary, by a miracle.

Her faithful clinging to hope was rewarded, for when one day, with

drooping head, she returned home from another futile errand, she found

Hannibal Melas there, as bearer of important news.

The Emperor’s last will had a codicil, which concerned a son of his

Majesty; but, a few days before his end, Charles had also remembered

Barbara, and commissioned Ogier Bodart, Adrian’s successor, to buy a

life annuity for her in Brussels. Hannibal had learned all this from

secret despatches received by Granvelle the day before. Informing her of

their contents might cost him his place; but how often she had entreated

him to think of her if any news came from Valladolid of a boy named

Geronimo or John, and how much kindness she had showed him when he was

only a poor choir boy!

At last, at last the most ardent desire of the mother’s heart was to be

fulfilled. She saw in the codicil the bridge which would lead her son

to splendour and magnificence, and up to the last hour of his life the

Emperor Charles had also remembered her.

She felt not only relieved of a burden, but as if borne on wings. Which

of these two pieces of news rendered her the happier, she could not have

determined. Yet she did not once think of the addition to her income.

What was that in comparison to the certainty that to the last Charles

did not forget her!

It made her husband happy to see her sunny cheerfulness. Never had she

played and romped with the children in such almost extravagant mirth.

Nay, more! For the first time the officer’s modest house echoed with the

singing of its mistress.

Though her voice was no longer so free from sharpness and harshness as

in the old days, it by no means jarred upon the ear; nay, every tone

revealed its admirable training. She had broken the long silence

with Josquin’s motet, “Quia amore langueo,” and in her quiet chamber

dedicated it, as it were, to the man to whom this cry of longing had

been so dear. Then, in memory of and gratitude to him, other religious

songs which he had liked to hear echoed from her lips.

The little German ballads which she afterward sang, to the delight of

her boys, deeply moved her husband’s heart, and she herself found that

it was no insult to art when, with the voice that she now possessed, she

again devoted herself to the pleasure of singing.

If the codicil brought her son what she desired, she could once more, if

her voice lost the sharpness which still clung to it, serve her beloved

art as a not wholly unworthy priestess, and then, perchance, she would

again possess the right, so long relinquished, of calling herself happy.

She would go the next day to Appenzelder, who always greeted her kindly

when they met in the street, and ask his advice.

If only Wolf had been there!

He understood how to manage women’s voices also, and could have given

her the best directions how to deal with the new singing exercises.

It seemed as though in these days not one of her wishes remained

unfulfilled, for the very next afternoon, just as she was dressing to

call upon the leader of the boy choir, the servant announced a stranger.

A glad presentiment hurried her into the vestibule, and there stood

Sir Wolf Hartschwert in person, an aristocratic cavalier in his black

Spanish court costume. He had become a man indeed, and his appearance

did not even lack the “sosiego,” the calm dignity of the Castilian

noble, which gave Don Louis Quijada so distinguished an appearance.

True, his greeting was more eager and cordial than the genuine

“sosiego”--which means “repose”--would have permitted. Even the manner

in which Wolf expressed his pleasure in the new melody of Barbara’s

voice, and whispered an entreaty to send the children and Frau

Lamperi--who came to greet him--away for a short time, was anything but

patient.

What had he in view?

Yet it must be something good.

When the light shone through her flower-decked window upon his face, she

thought she perceived this by the smile hovering around his lips. She

was not mistaken, nor did she wait long for the joyous tidings she

expected; his desire to tell her what, with the exception of the

regent--to whom his travelling companion, the Grand Prior Don Luis de

Avila, was perhaps just telling it as King Philip’s envoy--no human

being in the Netherlands could yet know, was perhaps not much less than

hers to hear it.

Scarcely an hour before he had dismounted in Brussels with the nobleman,

and his first visit was to her, whom his news must render happy, even

happier than it did him and the woman in the house near the palace,

whose heart cherished the Emperor’s son scarcely less warmly than his

own mother’s.

On the long journey hither he had constantly anticipated the pleasure

of telling every incident in succession, just as it had happened; but

Barbara interrupted his first sentence with an inquiry how her John was

faring.

“He is so well that scarcely ever has any boy in the happiest time of

his life fared better,” was the reply; and its purport, as well as

the tone in which it was uttered, entered Barbara’s heart like angels’

greetings from the wide-open heavens. But Wolf went on with his report,

and when, in spite of hundreds of questions, he at last completed the

main points, his listener staggered, as if overcome by wine, to the

image of the Virgin on the pilaster, and with uplifted hands threw

herself on her knees before it.

Wolf, unobserved, silently stole away.

CHAPTER XVII.