Christmas was past, New Year had come, the year 1853, one of the most
melancholy that the Austrian Empire had ever known. The atmosphere was
more charged than ever, coercion more and more severe, the confederacy
between the authorities of Church and State closer and closer.
Melancholy reports alarmed the minds of peaceful citizens: the Italian
Provinces were in a state of ferment, a conspiracy was discovered in
Hungary, and a secret league of the Slavs at Prague. How strong or how
weak these occult endeavours against the authority and peace of the
state might be, no one knew. One thing only was manifest: the severity
with which they were treated; and perhaps in this severity lay the
greatest danger of all. It was the old sad story that so often repeats
itself in the life of nations, and was then appearing in a new shape;
tyranny had called forth a counter-tyranny and this, in its turn, a
fresh tyranny. The police had much to do everywhere, and in some
districts the Courts of Justice too.
One of the greatest of the political investigations had, since
Christmas 1852, devolved upon the Court at Bolosch. The middle
classes of this manufacturing town were exclusively Germans, the
working-classes principally Slavs. It was among these latter that the
police believed they had discovered the traces of a highly treasonable
movement. About thirty workmen were arrested and handed over to
Justice. Sendlingen, assisted by Dernegg, personally conducted the
investigation. He had made the same selection in all the political
arrangements of the last few years, although he knew that any other
would have been more acceptable to the authorities. Certainly neither
he nor Dernegg were Liberals--much less Radicals--who sympathised with
Revolution and Revolutionaries. On the contrary both these aristocrats
had thoroughly conservative inclinations, at all events in that good
sense of the word which was then and is now so little understood in
Austria, and is so seldom given practical effect. They were, moreover,
entirely honourable and independent judges. But there was a prejudice
in those days against men of unyielding character, especially in the
case of political trials. There was an opinion that "pedantry" was out
of place where the interests of the state were at stake. Sendlingen, on
the other hand, was convinced that a political investigation should not
be conducted differently from any other, and it was precisely in this
inquisition into the conduct of the workmen that he manifested the
greatest zeal, but at the same time the most complete impartiality.
Divers reasons had determined him to devote all his energy to the case.
The diversion of his thoughts from his own misery did him good: the
ceaseless work deadened the painful suspense in which he was awaiting
the decision from Vienna. Moreover his knowledge of men and things had
predisposed him to believe that these poor rough fellows had not so
much deserved punishment as pity, and after a few days he was convinced
of the justice of this supposition.
These raftsmen and weavers and smiths who were all utterly ignorant,
who had never been inside a school, who scarcely knew a prayer save the
Lord's Prayer, who dragged on existence in cheerless wretchedness, were
perhaps more justified in their mute impeachment of the body politic,
than deserving of the accusations brought against them. They did not go
to confession, they often sang songs that had stuck in their minds
since 1848, and some of them had, in public houses and factories,
delivered speeches on the injustice of the economy of the world and
state as it was reflected in their unhappy brains. This was all; and
this did not make them enemies of the State or of the Emperor. On the
contrary, the record of their examination nearly always testified the
opinion: "the only misfortune was that the young Emperor knew nothing
of their condition, otherwise he would help them." Sendlingen's noble
heart was contracted with pity, whenever he heard such utterances. And
these men he was to convict of high treason! No! not an instant longer
than was absolutely necessary should they remain away from their
families and trades.
On the Feast of the Epiphany Sendlingen was sitting in his Chambers
examining a raftsman, an elderly man of herculean build with a heavy,
sullen face, covered with long straggling, iron-grey hair; Johannes
Novyrok was his name. The police had indicated him as particularly
dangerous, but he did not prove to be worse than the rest.
"Why don't you go to confession?" asked Sendlingen finally when all the
other grounds of suspicion had been discussed.
"Excuse me, my Lord," respectfully answered the man in Czech. "But do
you go?"
Sendlingen looked embarrassed and was about to sharply reprove him for
his impertinent question, but a look at the man's face disarmed him.
There was neither impertinence nor insolence written there, but rather
a painful look of anxiety and yearning that strangely affected
Sendlingen. "Why?" he asked.
"Because I might be able to regulate my conduct by yours," replied the
raftsman. "You see, my Lord, I differ from my brethren. People such as
we, they think, have no time to sin, much less to confess. The God
there used to be, must surely be dead, they say, otherwise there would
be more justice in the world; and if he is still alive, he knows well
enough that anyhow we have got hell on this earth and will not suffer
us to be racked and roasted by devils in the next world. But I have
never agreed with such sentiments; they strike me as being silly and
when my mates say: rich people have a good time of it, let them go to
confession,--why, its arrant nonsense. For I don't believe that any one
on earth has a good time of it, not even the rich, but that everybody
has their trouble and torment. And therefore I should very much like to
hear what a wise and good man, who must understand these things much
better than I do, has to say to it all. It might meet my case. And I
happen to have particular confidence in you. In the first place because
you're better and wiser than most men, so at least says every one in
the town, and this can't be either hypocrisy or flattery, because they
say so behind your back. But I further want to hear your opinion,
because I know for certain that you have an aching heart and plenty of
trouble."
"How do you know that?"
Novyrok glanced at the short-hand clerk sitting near Sendlingen and who
was manifestly highly tickled at the simplicity of this ignorant
workman. "I could only tell you," he said shyly, "if you were to send
that young man out of the room. It is no secret, but such fledglings
don't understand life yet."
The young clerk was much astonished when Sendlingen actually made a
sign to him to withdraw.
"Thank you," said the raftsman after the door was shut "Well, how I
know of your trouble? In the first place one can read it in your
face, and secondly I saw you one stormy night--it may be eight weeks
ago--wandering about the streets by yourself. You went down to the
river; I was watchman on a raft at the time and I saw you plainly.
There were tears running down your cheeks, but even if your eyes had
been dry--well no one goes roaming alone and at random on such a night,
unless he is in great trouble."
Sendlingen bowed his head lower over the papers before him. Novyrok
continued:
"An hour later, your friend brought you into our inn whither I had come
in the meanwhile after my mate had relieved me of the watch. You were
unconscious. I helped to carry you and take you home.... I don't tell
you this in the hope that you may punish me less than I deserve, but
just that I may say to you: you too, my Lord, know what suffering
is--do you find the thought of God comforting, and what do you think of
confession?"
Sendlingen made no reply; the recollection of that most fatal night of
his existence and the solemn question of the poor fellow, had deeply
moved him. "You must have experienced something, Novyrok," he said at
length, "that has shaken your Faith."
"Something, my Lord? Alas, everything!--Alas, my whole life! I don't
believe there are many people to whom the world is a happy place, but
such men as I should never have been born at all. I have never known
father or mother, I came into the world in a foundling hospital on a
Sylvester's Eve some fifty years ago--the exact date I don't know--and
that's why they called me 'Novyrok' (New-Year). I had to suffer a great
deal because of my birth; it is beyond all belief how I was knocked
about as a boy and youth among strangers--even a dog knows its mother
but I did not. And therefore one thing very soon became clear to me:
many disgraceful things happen on this earth, but the most disgraceful
thing of all is to bring children into the world in this way. Don't you
think so, my Lord?"
Sendlingen did not answer.
"And I acted accordingly," continued Novyrok, "and had no love-affair,
though I had to put great restraint upon myself. I don't know whether
virtue is easy to rich people; to the poor it is very bitter. It was
not until I became steersman of a raft and was earning four gulden a
week that I married an honest girl, a laundress, and she bore me a
daughter. That was a bright time, my Lord, but it didn't last long. My
wife began to get sickly and couldn't any longer earn any thing; we got
into want, although I honestly did my utmost and often, after the raft
was brought to, I chopped wood or stacked coal all night through when I
got the chance. Well, however poorly we had to live, we did manage to
live; things didn't get really bad till she died. My mates advised me
then to give the care of my child to other people--and go as a raftsman
to foreign parts, on a big river, the Elbe or the Danube: 'Wages,' they
said, 'are twice as much there and you, as an able raftsman, can't help
getting on.' But I hadn't got it in my heart to leave my little
daughter. Besides I was anxious about her; to be sure she was only
just thirteen, and a good, honest child, but she promised to be very
nice-looking. If you go away, I said to myself, you may perhaps stay
away for many years, and there are plenty of men in this world without
a conscience, and temptation is great! So I stayed, and so as not to be
separated from her even for a week, I gave up being a raftsman and
became a workman at a foundry. But I was awkward at the work, the wages
were pitiful, and though my daughter, poor darling, stitched her eyes
out of her head, we were more often hungry than full. I frequently
complained, not to her, but to others, and cursed my wretched
existence--I was a fool! for I was happy in those days; I did my duty
to my child."
Novyrok paused. Sendlingen sighed deeply. "And then?" he asked.
"Then, my Lord," continued the raftsman, "then came the dark hour, when
I yielded to my folly and selfishness. Maybe I am too hard on myself in
saying this, for I thought more of my child's welfare than my own, and
many people thought what I did reasonable. But otherwise I must accuse
Him above, and before I do that I would rather accuse myself. But I
will tell you what happened in a few words. A former mate of mine who
was working at the salt shipping trade on the Traun, persuaded me to go
with him, just for one summer, and the high wages tempted me. My girl
was sixteen at that time; she was like a rose, my Lord, to look at. But
before I went I told her my story, where I was born and who my mother
very likely was, and I said to her: 'Live honestly, my girl, or when I
come back in the autumn I will strike you dead, and then jump into the
deepest part of the river.' She cried and swore to me she'd be good.
But when I came back in the autumn----"
He sobbed. It was some time before he added in a hollow voice: "Hanka
was my daughter's name. Perhaps you remember the case, my Lord. It took
place in this house. Certainly it's a long while ago; it will be seven
years next spring."
"Hanka Novyrok," Sendlingen laid his hand on his forehead. "I
remember!" he then said. "That was the name of the girl who--who died
in her cell during her imprisonment upon trial."
"She hanged herself," said Novyrok, sepulchrally. "It happened in the
night; the next morning she was to have come before the Judges. She had
murdered her child."
There was a very long silence after this. Novyrok then resumed:
"You didn't examine me about the case, you would have understood me.
The other Judge before whom I was taken didn't understand me when I
said: 'This is a controversy between me and Him up above, for either He
is at fault or I am.' The Judge at first thought that grief had turned
my head, but when he understood what I said, he abused me roundly and
called me a blasphemer. But I am not that. I believe in Him. I do not
blaspheme Him, only I want to know how I stand with Him. It would be
the greatest kindness to me, my Lord, if you could decide for me."
"Poor fellow," said Sendlingen, "don't torment yourself any more about
it; such things nobody can decide."
Novyrok shook his head with a sigh. "A man like you ought to be able to
make it out," he said, "although I can see that it is not easy. For
look here--how does the case stand? A wretched blackguard, a
linendraper for whom she used to sew, seduced her in my absence. If I
had stayed here, it would not have happened. When I came back I learnt
nothing about it, she hid it from me out of fear of what I had said to
her at parting, and that was the reason why she killed her child, yes,
and herself too in the end. For I am convinced that it was not the fear
of punishment that drove her to death, but the fear of seeing me again,
and no doubt, she also wished to spare me the disgrace of that hour.
Now, my Lord, all this----"
They were interrupted. A messenger brought in a letter which had
just arrived. Sendlingen recognised the writing of the count, his
brother-in-law, who was a Judge of the Supreme Court. He laid the
letter unopened on the table; very likely belated New-year's wishes, he
thought. "Go on!" he said to the Accused.
"Well, my Lord, all this seems to tell against me, but it might be
turned against Him too. I might say to Him: 'Wasn't I obliged to try
and keep her from sin by using the strongest words? And why didst Thou
not watch over her when I was far away; Hanka was Thy child too, and
not only mine! And if Thou wouldst not do this, why didst Thou suffer
us two to be born? Thou wilt make reparation, sayst Thou, in Thy
Heaven? Well, no doubt it is very beautiful, but perhaps it is not so
beautiful that we shall think ourselves sufficiently compensated.' You
see, my Lord, I might talk like this--But if I were to begin. He too
would not be silent, and with a single question He could crush me. 'Why
did you go away?' He might ask me. 'Why did you not do your duty to
your child? I, O fool, have untold children; you had only this one to
whom you were nearest. You say in your defence that you did not act
altogether selfishly, that you wanted to better her condition as well.
May be, but you did think of _your own_ condition, _of yourself_ as
well, and that a father may not do! I warned you by your own life, and
by causing your conscience and presentiments to speak to you--why did
you not obey Me? Besides you would not have starved here?' You see, my
Lord, He might talk to me in this way and He would be right, for a
father may not think of himself for one instant where his child's
welfare is concerned. Isn't that so?
"Yes, that is so!" answered Sendlingen solemnly.
"Well, that is why I sometimes think: you should certainly go to
confession! What do you advise, my Lord?"
This time, too, Sendlingen could find no relevant answer, much as he
tried to seek the right words of consolation for this troubled heart.
He strove to lessen his sense of guilt, that sensitive feeling which
had so deeply moved him, and finally assured him also of a speedy
release. But Novyrok's face remained clouded; the one thing which he
had wished to hear, a decision of his singular "controversy" with
"Him," he had to do without, and when Sendlingen rang for the turnkey
to remove the prisoner, the latter expressed his gratitude for "his
Lordship's friendliness" but not for any comfort received.
Not until he had departed did Sendlingen take up his brother-in-law's
letter, which he meant hastily to run through. But after a few lines he
grew more attentive and his looks became overcast. "And this too," he
muttered, after he had read to the end, and his head sank heavily on
his breast.
The Count informed him, after a few introductory lines, of the purport
of a conversation he had just had with the Minister of Justice. "You
know his opinion," said the letter, "he honestly desires your welfare,
and a better proof of this than your appointment to Pfalicz he could
not have given you. All the more pained, nay angered, is he at your
obstinate disregard of his wishes. He told you in plain language that
he did not desire you and Dernegg to take part in any political
investigations. You have none the less observed the same arrangement in
the present investigation against the workmen. I warn you, Victor, not
for the first time, but for the last. You are trifling with your
future; far more important people than Chief Judges, however able, are
now being sent to the right-about in Austria. The anger of the minister
is all the greater, because your defiance this time is notorious.
Scarcely a fortnight ago, the Supreme Court instructed you to undertake
the brief examination of a witness; you handed the matter over to Hoche
and excused yourself on the plea of the pressure of your regular work;
and yet this work now suddenly allows you personally to conduct a
complicated inquiry against some three dozen workmen." The letter
continued in this strain at great length and concluded thus: "I implore
you to assign the inquiry to Werner and to telegraph me to this effect
to-day. If this is not done, you will tomorrow receive a telegram from
the Minister commanding you to do so. And if you don't obey then, the
consequences will be at once fatal to you. You know that I am no lover
of the melodramatic, and you will therefore weigh well what I have
said."
His brother-in-law--and Sendlingen knew it--certainly never affected a
melodramatic tone, and often as he had warned him, he had never before
written in such a key. What should he do? It was against his conscience
to submit and leave these poor fellows to their fate; but might he
concern himself more about men who were strangers to him, than about
the wellbeing of his own child? If he did not yield, would he not
perhaps be suddenly removed from his office, and just at the moment
when his unhappy daughter most of all required his help?
He went to his residence in a state of grievous interior conflict,
impotently drawn from one resolve to another. He sighed with relief
when Berger entered; his shrewd, discreet friend could not have come at
a more opportune moment.
But he, too, found it difficult to hit upon the right counsel, or at
least, to put it into words. "Don't let us confuse ourselves, Victor,"
he said at length. "First of all, you know as well as I do, that the
Minister has no right to put such a command upon you. You are
responsible to him that every trial in your Court shall be conducted
with the proper formalities; the power to arrange for this is in your
hands. And therefore they dare not seriously punish your insistence on
your manifest right. Dismissal on such a pretext is improbable and
almost inconceivable, especially when it is a question of a man of your
name and services."
"But it is possible."
"Anything is possible in these days," Berger was obliged to admit. "But
ought this remote possibility to mislead you? You would certainly not
hesitate a moment, if consideration for your child did not fetter you.
Should this consideration be more authoritative than every other? In my
opinion, no!"
"Because you cannot understand my feelings!" Sendlingen vehemently
interposed. "A father may not think of himself when his child's welfare
is concerned. The voice of nature speaks thus in the breast of every
man, even the roughest, and should it be silent in me?"
"My poor friend," said Berger, "in your heart, too, it has surely
spoken loud enough. And yet, so far, you have not hesitated for a
moment to fulfil your duty as a judge when it came into conflict with
your inclination. You would not preside at the trial, you would not
conduct the examination. The struggle is entering on a new phase, you
cannot act differently now."
"I must! I cannot help these poor people--besides Werner himself will
hardly be able to find them guilty. And the cases are not parallel; I
should have broken my oath if I had presided at the trial: I do not
break it if I obey the Minister's command."
"That is true," retorted Berger. "But I can only say: Seek some other
consolation, Victor,--this is unworthy of you! For you have always
been, like me, of the opinion that it is every man's duty to protect
the right, and prevent wrong, so long as there is breath in his body!
If I admonish you, it is not from any fanatical love of Justice, but
from friendship for you, and because I know you as well as one man can
ever know another. Your mind could endure anything, even the most
grievous suffering, anything save one thing: the consciousness of
having done an injustice however slight. If you submit, and if these
men are condemned even to a few years' imprisonment, their fate would
prey upon your mind as murder would on any one else. This I know, and I
would warn you against it as strongly as I can.... Let us look at the
worst that could happen, the scarcely conceivable prospect of your
dismissal. What serious effect could this have upon the fate of your
child? You perhaps cling to the hope of yourself imparting to her the
result of the appeal; that is no light matter, but it is not so grave
as the quiet of your conscience. It can have no other effect. If the
purport of the decision is a brief imprisonment, you could have no
further influence upon her destiny, whether you were in office or not;
she would be taken to some criminal prison, and you would have to wait
till her term of imprisonment was over before you could care for her.
If the terms of the decision are imprisonment for life, or death (you
see, I will not be so cowardly as not to face the worst), the only
course left open to you is, to discover all to the Emperor and implore
his pardon for your child. Is there anything else to be done?"
Sendlingen was silent.
"There is no other means of escape. And if it comes to this, if you
have to sue for her pardon, it will assuredly be granted you, whether
you are in office or not. It will be granted you on the score of
humanity, of your services and of your family. It is inconceivable that
this act of grace should be affected by the fact that you had just
previously had a dispute with the Minister of Justice. It is against
reason, still more against sentiment. The young Prince is of a
chivalrous disposition."
"That he is!" replied Sendlingen. "And it is not this consideration
that makes me hesitate, I had hardly thought of it. It was quite
another idea.... Thank you, George," he added. "Let us decide tomorrow,
let us sleep upon it." He said this with such a bitter, despairing
smile, that his friend was cut to the heart.
The next morning when Berger was sitting in his Chambers engaged upon
some pressing work, the door was suddenly flung open and Sendlingen's
servant Franz entered. Berger started to his feet and could scarcely
bring himself to ask whether any calamity had occurred.
"Very likely it is a calamity," replied the old man, continuing in his
peculiar fashion of speech which had become so much a habit with him,
that he could never get out of it. "We were taken ill again in
Chambers, very likely we fell down several times as before, we came
home deadly pale but did not send in for the Doctor, but for you, sir."
Berger started at once, Franz following behind him. As they went along,
Berger fancied he heard a sob. He looked round: there were tears in the
old servant's eyes. When they got into the residence, Berger turned to
him and said: "Be a man, Franz."
Then the old fellow could contain himself no longer; bright tears
coursed down his cheeks. "Dr. Berger," he stammered. He had bent over
his hand and kissed it before Berger could prevent him. "Have pity on
me! Tell me what has been going on the last two months! We often speak
to Brigitta about it--I am told nothing! Why? We know that this silence
is killing me. I could long ago have learned it by listening and
spying, but Franz doesn't do that sort of thing. If you cannot tell me,
at least put in a word for me. Surely we do not want to kill me!"
Berger laid his hand on his shoulder. "Be calm, Franz, we have all
heavy burdens to bear."
He then went into Sendlingen's room. "The minister's telegram?" he
asked.
"Worse!"
"The decision? What is the result?" The question was superfluous; the
result was plainly enough written in Sendlingen's livid, distorted
features. Berger, trembling in every limb, seized the fatal paper that
lay on the table.
"Horrible!" he groaned--it was a sentence of death.
He forced himself to read the motives given; they were briefly enough
put. The Supreme Court had rejected the appeal to nullify the trial,
although the credibility of the servant-girl had appeared doubtful
enough to it, too. At the same time, the decision continued, there was
no reason for ordering a new trial, as the guilt of the accused was
manifest without any of the evidence of this witness. The Supreme Court
had gone through this without noticing either her recent statement
incriminating the Accused, nor her first favorable evidence. The
Countess' depositions alone, therefore, must determine Victorine's
conduct before the deed, and her motives for the deed. These seemed
sufficient to the Supreme Court, not to alter the sentence of death.
For a long time Berger held the paper in his hands as if stunned; at
length he went over to his unhappy friend, laid his arms around his
neck and gently lifted his face up towards him. But when he looked into
that face, the courage to say a word of consolation left him.
He stepped to the window and stood there for, perhaps, half an hour.
Then he said softly, "I will come back this evening," and left the
room.
Towards evening he received a few lines from his friend. Sendlingen
asked him not to come till to-morrow; by that time he hoped to have
recovered sufficient composure to discuss quietly the next steps to be
taken. He was of opinion that Berger should address a petition for
pardon to the Emperor, and asked him to draw up a sketch of it.
Berger read of this request with astonishment. He would certainly have
lodged a petition for pardon, even if Victorine Lippert had been simply
his client and not Sendlingen's daughter. But he would have done it
more from a sense of duty than in the hope of success. That this hope
was slight, he well knew. The petition would have to take its course
through the Supreme Court, and it was in the nature of the case that
the recommendation of the highest tribunal would be authoritative with
the Emperor; exceptions had occurred, but their number was assuredly
not sufficient to justify any confident hopes. All this Sendlingen must
know as well as himself. Why, therefore, did he wish that the attempt
should be made? In this desperate state of things, there was but one
course that promised salvation; a personal audience with the Emperor.
Why did Sendlingen hesitate to choose this course?
Berger made up his mind to lay all this strongly before him, and when
on the next day he rang the bell of the residence, he was determined
not to leave him until he had induced him to take this step.
"We are still in Chambers," announced Franz. "We want you to wait here
a little. We have been examining workmen again since this morning
early, and have hardly allowed ourselves ten minutes for food."
"So he has none the less resolved to go on with that?" said Berger.
Perhaps, he thought to himself, the telegram has not arrived yet.
"None the less resolved?" cried Franz. "We have perhaps seldom worked
away with such resolution and Baron Dernegg, too, was dictating
to-day--I say it with all respect--like one possessed."
Berger turned to go. It occurred to him that he had not seen Victorine
for a week, and he thought he would use the interval by visiting her.
"I shall be back in an hour," he said to Franz. "In the meanwhile I
have something to do in the prison."
"In the prison?" The old man's face twitched, he seized Berger's arm
and drew him back into the lobby, shutting the door. "Forgive me, Dr.
Berger. My heart is so full.... You are going to her--are you not? To
our poor young lady, to Victorine?"
"What? Since when?" ...
"Do I know it?" interrupted Franz. "Since yesterday evening!" And with
a strange mixture of pride and despair he went on: "We told me
everything!... Oh, it is terrible. But we know what I am worth! My poor
master! ah! I couldn't sleep all night for sorrow.... But we shall see
that we are not deceived in me.... I have a favour to ask, Dr. Berger.
Brigitta has the privilege naturally, because she is a woman and a
member of the 'Women's Society.' But I, what can I appeal to? Certainly
I have in a way, been in the law for twenty-five years, and understand
more of these things than many a young fledgling who struts about in
legal toggery, but--a lawyer I certainly am not--so, I suppose, Dr.
Berger, it is unfortunately impossible?"
"What? That you should pay her a visit? Certainly it is impossible, and
if you play any pranks of that kind----"
"Oh! Dr. Berger," said the old man imploringly. "I did but ask your
advice because my heart is literally bursting. Well, if this is
impossible, I have another favour, and this you will do me! Greet our
poor young lady from me! Thus, with these words: 'Old Franz sends
Fraeulein Victorine his best wishes from all his heart--and begs her not
to despair.... and--and wants to remind her that the God above is still
living.'"
Berger could scarcely understand his last words for the tears that
choked, the old man's voice. He himself was moved; as yesterday, so
to-day, Franz's tears strongly affected him, for the old servant was
not particularly soft by nature. "Yes, yes, Franz," he promised, and
then betook himself to the prison. He resolved to continue to be quite
candid with Victorine, but not to mention the result of the appeal by a
single word.
But when he entered her cell, she came joyfully to meet him, her eyes
glistening with tears. "How shall I thank you?" she cried much moved
trying to take his hand.
He fell back a step. "Thank me?--What for?"
"Oh, I know," she said softly with a look at the door as if an
eavesdropper might have been there. "My father told me that it was not
official yet. He hurried to me this morning as soon as he had received
the news, but it is still only private information, and for the present
I must tell nobody! Whom else have I to thank but you?"
"What?" he asked. And he added with an unsteady voice: "I have not seen
him for the last few days. Has he had news from Vienna?"
"To be sure! The Supreme Court has pardoned me. My imprisonment during
trial is to be considered as punishment. In a few weeks I shall be
quite free."
Berger felt all the blood rush to his heart. "Quite free!" he repeated
faintly. "In a few weeks!" And at the same time he was tortured by the
importunate question: "Great God! he has surely gone mad? How could he
do this? What is his object?"
"Merciful Heaven!" she cried. "How pale you have turned. How sombre you
look! Merciful Heaven! you have not received other news? He has surely
not been deceived? Oh, if I had to die after all!--now--now----"
She staggered. Berger took her hand and made her sink down on to the
nearest chair. "I have no other news," he said as firmly as possible.
"It came upon me with such a shock! I am surprised that he has not yet
told me anything. But then, of course, he did not hear of it till
to-day. If he has told you, you can, of course, look upon it as
certain."
"May I not?" She sighed with relief. "I need not tremble any more? Oh,
how you frightened me!"
"Forgive me--calm yourself!"
He took up his hat again.
"Are you going already? And I have not yet half thanked you!"
"Don't mention it!" he said curtly, parrying her remark. "Au revoir,"
he added with more friendliness, and leaving the cell, hurried to
Sendlingen's residence.
He had just come in; Berger approached him in great excitement. "I have
just been to see Victorine," he began. "How could you tell this
untruth? How _could_ you?"
Sendlingen cast down his eyes. "I had to do it. I was afraid that
otherwise the news of her condemnation might reach her."
"No," cried Berger. "Forgive my vehemence," he then continued. "I have
reason for it. Such empty pretexts are unworthy of you and me. You
yourself see to the regulation of the Courts and the prison. The
Accused never hear their sentence until they are officially informed."
"You do me an injustice," replied Sendlingen, his voice still
trembling, and it was not till he went on that he recovered himself: "I
have no particular reasons that I ought or want to hide from you.
I told her in an ebullition of feeling that I can hardly account
for to myself. When I saw her to-day she was much sadder, much more
hopeless, than has been usual with her lately. She certainly had a
presentiment--and I, in my flurry at this, feared that some report
might already have reached her. Such a thing, in spite of all
regulations, is not inconceivable; chance often plays strange pranks.
In my eager desire to comfort her, those words escaped me. The
exultation with which she received them, robbed me of the courage to
lessen their favourable import afterwards! That is all!"
Berger looked down silently for a while. "I will not reproach you," he
then resumed. "How fatal this imprudence may prove, you can see as well
as I. She was prepared for the worst and therefore anything not so bad,
might perhaps have seemed like a favour of Heaven. Now she is expecting
the best, and whatever may be obtained for her by way of grace, it will
certainly dishearten and dispirit her. But there is no help for it now!
Let us talk of what we can help! You want me to lodge a petition for
pardon? It would be labour in vain!"
"Well," said Sendlingen hesitatingly, "in some cases the Emperor has
revoked the sentence of death in spite of the decision of the Supreme
Court."
"Yes, but we dared not build on this hope if we had no other.
Fortunately this is the case. You must go to Vienna; only on your
personal intercession is the pardon a _certainty_. And my petition
could at best only get the sentence commuted to imprisonment for life,
whereas your prayer would obtain a shorter imprisonment and, after a
few years, remission of the remainder. You must go to-morrow,
Victor--there is no time to lose."
Sendlingen turned away without a word.
"How am I to understand this?" cried Berger, anxiously approaching him.
"You _will_ not?"
The poor wretch groaned aloud, "I will----" he exclaimed. "But later
on--later on----. As soon as your petition has been dispatched."
"But why?" cried Berger. "I have hitherto appreciated and sympathised
with your every sentiment and act, but this delay strikes me as being
unreasonable, unpardonable. I would spare you if less depended on the
cast, but as it is, I will speak out. It is unmanly, it is----" He
paused. "Spare me having to say this to you, to you who were always so
brave and resolute. There is no time to lose, I repeat. Who will vouch
that it may not then be too late? If my petition is rejected, the Court
will at the same time order the sentence to be carried out. Do you know
so certainly that you will still be here then, that you will still have
time then to hurry to Vienna? Think! Think!"
Berger had been talking excitedly and paused out of breath. But he was
resolved not to yield and was about to begin again when Sendlingen
said: "You have convinced me; I will go to Vienna sooner, even before
the dispatch of your petition."
"Then you still insist that I shall proceed with it?"
"Please; it can do no harm; it may do good. And at least we shall gain
time by it. I cannot undertake the journey to Vienna until the inquiry
against the working men is ended. In this, too, there is not a day to
be lost; neither Dernegg nor I know whether there is not an order on
the road that may in some way make us harmless. I trust we shall by
that time have succeeded in proving that no punishable offence has been
committed. I have received the Minister's telegram to-day, and at once
replied that the inquiry was so complicated, and had already proceeded
so far, that a change in the examining Judges would be impracticable."
"I am glad that you have followed my advice," said Berger. "And in
spite of these aggravated conditions! You hesitated as long as the
decision was not known to you, as long as you simply feared it, and
when your fears were confirmed, you were brave again and did not
hesitate for an instant in doing your duty as an honourable man!
Victor, few people would have done the like!" He reached out his hand
to say good-bye. "You have now taken old Franz into your confidence?"
he asked, "another participator in the secret--it would have been well
to consider it first! But I will not begin to scold again. Adieu!"