Sendlingen went to his own quarters; his old manservant let him in and
followed him with anxious looks into his study.
"You may go, Franz!" he said shortly and sharply. "I am not at home to
anybody."
"And should Dr. Berger?"
"Berger?" He shook his head decidedly. Then he seemed to remember some
one else. "I will see him," he said, drawing a deep breath.
The old man went out hesitatingly: Sendlingen was alone. But after a
few minutes the voice of his friend was audible in the lobby, and
Berger entered with a formidable bundle of documents under his arm.
"Well, how goes it now?" cried the portly man, still standing in the
doorway. "Better, certainly, as you are going to preside to-morrow.
Here are the papers."
He laid the bundle on the table and grasped Sendlingen's outstretched
hand. "A mill-stone was rolled from my neck when the messenger came. In
the first place, I knew you were better again, and secondly the chief
object of my visit at noon to-day was attained without my own
intervention."
"Did you come on that account?"
"Yes, Victor,--and not merely to greet you." The advocate's broad, open
face grew very serious. "I wanted to draw your attention to to-morrow's
trial, not only from motives of pity for the unfortunate girl, but also
in the interests of Justice. Old Werner, who gets more and more
impressed with the idea that he is combating the Revolution in every
case of child-murder, is not the right Judge for this girl. 'There are
cases,' once wrote an authority on criminal law, 'where a sentence of
death accords with the letter of the law, but almost amounts to
judicial murder.' I hope you will let this authority weigh with you,
though you yourself are he. Now then, if Werner is put in a position
to-morrow to carry out the practice to which he has accustomed himself
in the last few weeks, we shall have one of these frightful cases."
Sendlingen made no reply. His limbs seemed to grow rigid and the
beating of his heart threatened to stop. "How--how does the case
stand?" he at length blurted out hoarsely and with great effort.
"Your voice is hoarse," remarked Berger innocently. "You must have
caught cold on the journey. Well, as to the case." He settled himself
comfortably in his chair. "It is only one of the usual, sad stories,
but it moved me profoundly after I had seen and spoken to the poor
wretch. Victorine Lippert is herself an illegitimate child and has
never found out who her father was; even after her mother's death no
hint of it was found among her possessions. As she was born in Radautz,
a small town in the Bukowina, and as her mother was governess in the
house of a Boyar, it is probable that she was seduced by one of these
half-savages or perhaps even a victim to violence. I incline to the
latter belief, because Hermine Lippert's subsequent mode of life and
touching care for her child, are against the surmise that she was of
thoughtless disposition. She settled in a small town in Styria and made
a scanty living by music lessons. Forced by necessity, she hazarded the
pious fraud of passing as a widow,--otherwise she and her child must
have starved. After eight years a mere chance disclosed the deception
and put an end to her life in the town. She was obliged to leave, but
obtained a situation as companion to a kind-hearted lady in Buda-Pesth,
and being now no longer able to keep her little daughter with her, she
had her brought up at a school in Gratz. Mother and child saw one
another only once a year, but kept up a most affectionate
correspondence. Victorine was diligent in her studies, grave and
accomplished beyond her years, and justified the hope that she would
one day earn a livelihood by her abilities. This sad necessity came
soon enough. She lost her mother when she was barely fifteen: the
Hungarian lady paid her school fees for a short time, and then the
orphan had to help herself. Her excellent testimonials procured
her the post of governess in the family of the widowed Countess
Riesner-Graskowitz at Graskowitz near Golotz. She had the charge of two
small nieces of the Countess and was patient in her duties, in spite of
the hardness of a harsh and utterly avaricious woman. In June of last
year, her only son, Count Henry, came home for a lengthy visit."
Sendlingen sighed deeply and raised his hand.
"You divine the rest?" asked Berger. "And indeed it is not difficult to
do so! The young man had just concluded his initiation into the
diplomatic service at our Embassy in Paris, and was to have gone
on to Munich in September as attache. Naturally he felt bored in the
lonely castle, and just as naturally he sought to banish his boredom
by trying to seduce the wondrously beautiful, girlish governess.
He heaped upon her letters full of glowing protestations--I mean to
read some specimens to-morrow, and amongst them a valid promise of
marriage--and the girl of seventeen was easily fooled. She liked the
handsome, well-dressed fellow, believed in his love as a divine
revelation and trusted in his oaths. You will spare me details, I
fancy; this sort of thing has often happened."
"Often happened!" repeated Sendlingen mechanically, passing his hand
over his eyes and forehead.
"Well to be brief! When the noble Count Henry saw that the girl was
going to become a mother before she herself had any suspicion of it, he
determined to entirely avoid any unpleasantness with his formidable
mother, and had himself sent to St. Petersburg. Meantime a good-natured
servant girl had explained her condition to the poor wretch and had
faithfully comforted her in her boundless anguish of mind, and helped
her to avoid discovery. Her piteous prayers to her lover remained
unanswered. At length there came a letter--and this, too, I shall read
to-morrow--in which the scoundrel forbade any further molestation and
even threatened the law. And now picture the girl's despair when,
almost at the same time, the countess discovered her secret,--whether
by chance or by a letter of the brave count, is still uncertain.
Certainly less from moral indignation than from fear of the expense,
this noble lady was now guilty of the shocking brutality of having the
poor creature driven out into the night by the men-servants of the
house! It was a dark, cold, wet night in April: shaken with fever and
weary to death, the poor wretch dragged herself towards the nearest
village. She did not reach it; halfway, in a wood, some peasants from
Graskowitz found her the next morning, unconscious. Beside her lay her
dead, her murdered child."
Sendlingen groaned and buried his face in his hands.
"Her fate moves you?" asked Berger. "It is certainly piteous enough!
The men brought her to the village and informed the police at Golotz.
The preliminary examination took place the next day. It could only
establish that the child had been strangled; it was impossible to take
the depositions of the murderess: she was in the wildest delirium, and
the prison-doctor expected her to die. But Fate," Berger rose and his
voice trembled--"Fate was not so merciful. She recovered, and was sent
first to Golotz and then brought here. She admitted that in the
solitude of that dreadful night, overcome by her pains, forsaken of God
and man, she formed the resolve to kill herself and the child--when and
how she did the deed she could not say. I am persuaded that this is no
lie, and I believe her affirmation that it was only unconsciousness
that prevented her suicide. Doesn't that appear probable to you too?"
Sendlingen did not answer. "Probable," he at length muttered, "highly
probable!"
Berger nodded. "Thus much," he continued, "is recorded in the judicial
documents, and as all this is certainly enough to arouse sympathy, I
went to see her as soon as the defence was allotted to me. Since that I
have learnt more. I have learnt that a true and noble nature has been
wrecked by the baseness of man. She must have been not only
fascinatingly beautiful, but a character of unusual depth and purity.
One can still see it, just as fragments of china enable us to guess the
former beauty of a work of art. For this vessel is broken in pieces,
and her one prayer to me was: not to hinder the sentence of death!...
But I cannot grant this prayer," he concluded. "She must not die, were
it only for Justice's sake! And a load is taken off my heart to think
that a human being is to preside at the trial to-morrow, and not a
rhetoric machine!"
He had spoken with increasing warmth, and with a conviction of spirit
which this quiet, and indeed temperate man, seldom evinced.
His own emotion prevented him from noticing how peculiar was his
friend's demeanour. Sendlingen sat there for a while motionless, his
face still covered with his hands, and when he at length let them fall,
he bowed his head so low that his forehead rested on the edge of the
writing-table. In this position he at last blurted forth:
"I cannot preside to-morrow."
"Why not?" asked Berger in astonishment. "Are you really ill?" And as
he gently raised his friend's head and looked into his worn face he
cried out anxiously: "Why of course--you are in a fever."
Sendlingen shook his head. "I am quite well, George! But even if it
cost me my life, I would not hand over this girl to the tender mercies
of others, if only I dared. But I dare not!"
"You _dare_ not!"
"The law forbids it!"
"The law? You are raving!"
"No! no!" cried the unhappy man springing up. "I would that I were
either mad or dead, but such is not my good fortune! The law forbids
it, for a father----"
"Victor!"
"Everything tallies, everything! The mother's name--the place--the year
of birth--and her name is Victorine."
"Oh my God! She is your----"
"My daughter," cried the unfortunate wretch in piercing tones and then
quite broke down.
Berger stood still for an instant as if paralysed by pity and
amazement! Then he hurried to his friend, raised him and placed him in
his arm-chair. "Keep calm!" he murmured. "Oh! it is frightful!... Take
courage!... The poor child!" He was himself as if crushed by the weight
of this terrible discovery.
Breathing heavily, Sendlingen lay there, his breast heaving
convulsively; then he began to sob gently; far more piteously than
words or tears, did these despairing, painfully subdued groans betray
how exceedingly he suffered. Berger stood before him helplessly; he
could think of no fitting words of comfort, and he knew that whatever
he could say would be said in vain.
The door was suddenly opened loudly and noisily; old Franz had heard
the bitter lamenting and could no longer rest in the lobby. "My Lord!"
he screamed, darting to the sufferer. "My dear good master."
"Begone!" Sendlingen raised himself hastily. "Go, Franz--I beg!" he
repeated, more gently.
But Franz did not budge. "We are in pain," he muttered, "and Fraeulein
Brigitta may not come in and I am sent away! What else is Franz in the
world for?" He did not go until Berger by entreaties and gentle force
pushed him out of the door.
Sendlingen nodded gratefully to his friend.
"Sit here," he said, pointing to a chair near his own. "Closer
still--so! You must know all, if only for her sake! You shall have no
shred of doubt as to whom you are defending to-morrow, and perhaps you
may discover the expedient for which I have racked my brain in vain.
And indeed I desire it on my own account. Since the moment I discovered
it I feel as if I had lost everything. Everything--even myself! You are
one of the most upright men I know; you shall judge me, George, and in
the same way that you will defend this poor girl, with your noble heart
and clear head. Perhaps you will decide that some other course is
opened to me beside----"
He stopped and cast a timid glance at a small neat case that lay on his
writing-table. Berger knew that it contained a revolver.
"Victor!" he cried angrily and almost revolted.
"Oh, if you knew what I suffer! But you are right, it would be
contemptible. I dare not think of myself. I dare not slink out of the
world. I have a duty to my child. I have neglected it long enough,--I
must hold on now and pay my debt. Ah! how I felt only this morning, and
now everything lies around me shivered to atoms. Forgive me, my poor
brain can still form no clear thought! But--I will--I must. Listen, I
will tell you, as if you were the Eternal Judge Himself, how everything
came about."