Bertram had no difficulty in replying merrily to the merry questions of
the fair stranger. His head was full of merry thoughts, there was
nothing but rapture in his heart. All the world seemed to him to be
filled with the fragrance of that rose Erna had given him to-day, that
rose which he had since worn near his heart, and from which the hostile
looks of Hildegard and the others fell off harmless, as from a potent
talisman. Human envy notwithstanding, things awarded him by the grace
of the gods were coming to him, nay, had come. If he had still required
any confirmation, what confirmation more delightful could he have had
than the exuberant mirth to which the beloved child's melancholy
gravity had suddenly turned? Like fairy music her rippling laugh seemed
to him, coming from the adjoining room, where, surrounded by her
cousins, she was as indefatigable in admiring Herr von Busche's feats,
as that gentleman himself was in performing them. And he was willing to
bear in patience that she was taken up by her friends all the evening,
even as he was himself by the rest of the company, and that thus he had
not found one single moment when he might have approached her, might
have told her what she knew already, what no longer required to be
said, what could be said only by a kiss on those pure, sweet lips.
In such rapturous dreams his soul was rejoicing whilst he was
conversing gaily with the Russian beauty. And rapture, too, it was to
compare this foreign beauty, from whom, in spite of her youth, the
strong and not always pure breath of the great world had long ago
brushed away the dainty down, with the chaste grace of the beloved
maid. She needed no sparkling diamonds, no jingling of golden
bracelets; she could dispense with all these over-refined arts of the
toilet, this coquetterie which calculated every pose of the plump
little frame, every movement of the round arms and the white hands,
every rise and fall of the long lids, every glance, every smile from
the black eyes! His Erna was the fairer and nobler of the two, a born
Princess!
In their conversation, which was carried on, as far as Bertram was
concerned, all the more eagerly the less his heart was touched by it,
and to which Alexandra, passing as lightly as a bird from one subject
to another, was constantly adding fresh topics of interest, they were
interrupted by the loud laughter of the girls. Indeed, two of the
sisters came rushing into the drawing-room to invite those who were
there to come and admire a positively incredible trick which Herr von
Busche had just performed, and which he was prepared to repeat--but by
universal desire only. They drew the others away with them, uncle and
aunt, the Herr _Oberfoerster_ and the Baron.
"You would like to go," said Alexandra. "Do not stay on my account. I
have already withdrawn you too long from the society of the others."
"You dismiss me?"
"One should never detain any one who wants to escape!"
"But what has brought such evil suspicion upon me?"
"Your eyes, which are constantly, though ever so discreetly, wandering
to that door, in whose frame, it is true, the group of young ladies
appears as full of charms as one of Winterhalter's tableaux. Four
girls, one of whom, for the sake of contrast, I suppose, has had the
superb inspiration to be ugly, while the other three vie with each
other in beauty. Which of the girls do you think the most beautiful?"
"I thought the question could not be asked."
"Do you think so? But since I have asked it, I suppose you will have to
be polite enough to answer it. You mean the young lady with the lovely
neck and the glorious Titian-like hair? I could wager that you do."
"Don't; you would lose your wager."
"Then I declare that you are not an impartial judge, perhaps absolutely
bribed; bribed by the rose, say, that you wear in your button-hole."
Alexandra had dropped the eye-glass which she had raised to look upon
the group of girls in the doorway, and now, turning swiftly round to
Bertram, she looked laughingly into his eyes, and said--
"That was indiscreet, was it not?"
"Not at all," Bertram replied. "This rose, it is true, is the gift of
one of the young ladies, and indeed, of the one who seems to me to be
by far the most beautiful--the daughter of our host, if you wish to
know. But it was no secret gift. I have had it awarded to me before the
whole party assembled, as a reward, by the way, for staying a few days
longer than I had promised. You see in this case, as in so many others,
the small merit is out of all proportion to the great reward."
"Then I was not altogether wrong," said Alexandra, "there was a certain
amount of bribery connected with it, although there was no call for it.
Openly speaking, I can but confirm your decision. Fraeulein Erna is by
far the most beautiful, most graceful, most interesting, not only of
the few young ladies yonder, but of all those I have recently, perhaps
whom I have ever seen. And my evidence is assuredly unprejudiced and
unbribed, nay, more, it is generous, for, between you and me, Fraeulein
Erna is not treating me in a friendly way."
"That," Bertram asserted eagerly, "is assuredly a mistake; it may seem
so, but her cousins are claiming so much of her attention, and, perhaps
too, having been so little in society as yet, she may be a little shy
before a lady of the _grand monde_."
"Perhaps," said Alexandra, "although the latter alternative would not
be very flattering for me, seeing that I fancy, besides being somewhat
of a grand lady, I have remained a good deal of the _bonne enfant_. Nor
have I at all given up the hope of proving to the dear child that I am
indeed her friend. I believe I have found out that she needs one. Do
you not think so?"
Bertram was puzzled. But she had spoken kindly, naturally, just like
some one rather given to blurt out whatever thought came uppermost.
"Who does not need friends?" he answered with a smile.
"Very true," replied the Princess, "and very diplomatic. I quite
understand your diplomacy. You are the friend of this fair creature; it
is therefore your bounden duty, if other people clamour for admission
to the ranks of her friends, to be very critical, particularly so if it
strikes you as incomprehensible whence those others derive the sudden
sympathy to which they lay claim. But, _que voulez-vous?_ A young
woman, whose heart is wholly unoccupied, and who is driven about in the
world by this aforesaid unoccupied heart, like a balloon that has lost
its ballast--what other and what better thing can she do, than be
interested in anything interesting that chance puts in her way? This is
my occupation. Any occupation seriously pursued makes you an expert,
sooner or later, in that occupation. I have always pursued mine
seriously, and have pursued it long enough to claim to be something
like an expert in it. Now here everything is so simple and clear that
the meanest understanding can make for itself a fairly correct picture
in half a dozen hours. Given: a man who would be the very pattern of a
loving father for his daughter, if he were not a rare specimen of the
truly obedient husband; a wife who would swear by all she held sacred
that she thinks of nothing but how to make her daughter happy, and who
makes her as unhappy as only a narrow-hearted narrow-minded mother
can make a singularly gifted, large-hearted daughter; an aged
scandal-loving, intriguing _confidante_, who likes to make mischief,
the better to pursue her own mean objects in troubled waters; a young
suitor, endowed by nature for the very part of _jeune premier_ at a
second-rate theatre; an older friend of the family whose clear, clever
eyes see all this, of course, and whose whole sympathy, equally a
matter of course, is enlisted for the girl whose gradual growth and
glorious development he has watched. Why, I should think the matter was
as plain as the 'secret' in the most casual novel. And, should you care
for a more complicated ... fable,--let the friend of the family
conceive a serious, passionate attachment to the 'dear child,' and then
you have abundant material for volume number two."
Bertram started. This could no longer--it was impossible--be the mere
inspiration of the moment, and only a harmless _causerie_. There was
treachery at work here, evidently inspired by Hildegard, with whom the
Russian lady had, a short time ago, conversed so long and so eagerly.
And if the Princess, as was quite possible, considering the great
vivacity of her disposition, had already chosen a side: which side?
Erna's? or that of her mother? Probably the latter, for she spoke so
very bitterly of her. One does that kind of thing to draw one's
opponent out. But in that case the great lady must use greater cunning
yet.
"I admire your wonderful imagination," he said, "and if I were a poet,
I would envy it. How charming to see poetical elements everywhere, and
also to be at once clear as to the arranging and dove-tailing which
torments the poet so much. You should really make a book of it. Even if
the subject is not quite new--where, indeed, could, quite new ones be
found nowadays?--a clever author will see something new even in the
most hackneyed subject. For myself, of course, the second volume would
be specially interesting, when the old friend of the family comes on
the stage; for him, of course, the business cannot possibly end well."
"I beg," said the Princess, "that you, will not spoil my text. I have
by no means said that my hero is old. On the contrary, he is in the
prime of life; of that age when we women only begin to find you men
amiable, and rightly so, for you only begin then to become amiable;
somewhere about fifty, we'll say."
Bertram bowed.
"Accept my sincere thanks," he said, "in my own name, seeing I am of
the amiable age, and in the name of my many contemporaries. You are
taking a load off my heart, for now, equally of course, the issue need
by no means be so bad. The chances for and against are anyhow equal."
"There, again, you go too far," replied the Princess. "The bad issue,
to be sure, is no longer necessary; it must, however, always remain
probable."
"Always?"
"I think so, even under the most favourable circumstances."
"What would you call favourable circumstances?"
"We will talk of that later on. Let us first take a specially
unfavourable case, which, perhaps, is so all the more the less it would
appear to be so. It seems, for example, that our fair young friend
would feel less keenly the difference in years, and all the unpleasant
and awkward things connected with it, and resulting from it. She is--at
least so I judge her to be, and that is sufficient for our purpose--one
of those deeply serious natures who are greatly given to confounding
the wild phantasies of the head with the true enthusiasm of the heart,
and who will conscientiously, and to its utmost consequences, adhere to
what once they have seized upon and vowed. But I presume that she is as
passionate as she is conscientious; and if her passion and her
conscience once come in conflict, the struggle will be terrific. She
may come forth victorious from the battle, but what avails a victory
that ends in resignation? There we should have an issue, which may be
convenient enough for the oldish husband, but then--his convenience and
her happiness are surely very different things."
"If I under stand you correctly," Bertram made answer, "you plead for
the same theory which I hold, too, and which, as it happens, I have had
to defend repeatedly during the last few days in our little circle:
namely, that a man who is no longer young, cannot become the object of
a passionate attachment on the part of a young girl; or it is anyhow in
some way an aberration, and therefore cannot last."
"That is exactly what I mean," the Princess assented eagerly. "We come,
then, to a law of nature, which we must accept like other laws,
although they are by no means flattering, nay, downright humiliating to
our pride. Perhaps, however, on the other hand, the danger of an error
and of the consequent conflict is not quite so great in the case in
point, since the curiously-veiled radiance of the glorious eyes of that
fair child seems to imply that she has already more than a mere vague
foreboding of that passion--that she has already loved, perhaps loved
unhappily, and would, consequently, not have to make these bitter
experiences, which teach us to be wise, and quiet, and resigned, one
after the other, in actual wedlock. But who is to give us the guarantee
that the last supposition is correct? I could tell you a curious story,
if you care to hear it."
"You simply owe me the story, my gracious Princess, as a proof of our
joint theory."
"Well, it is fortunately not a long story, and the rest of the company
have given us up, anyhow. Listen, then."
Alexandra's eyes had been examining the large chamber; they were quite
alone in it now, for all the others were crowding with merry laughter
round the magician's table. She leaned forward in her chair; Bertram
courteously, approached his own, and she began with a lowered voice,
keeping her black eyes under the half closed lids steadily fixed upon
him:--
"The scene is Paris; the time some two years ago; the heroine is a
friend of mine, a lady belonging to the highest society in France,
whose fate had been similar to my own in one respect only: she too had
married at sixteen, and been shortly after left a childless widow.
Claudine--I give you her Christian name alone, for the other is
unimportant to us--was not only, of course, much more beautiful than I,
in fact, extraordinarily beautiful and much more gifted; she was also
for good--and, as I may add without boasting, for evil--a much greater,
more energetic creature. Not that I have anything very bad to say of
dear Claudine, or, at least, nothing worse than has been said of many a
woman who could not, perhaps, claim such weighty 'extenuating
circumstances.' Her mother had, for reasons of her own, persuaded her
into this marriage, which had turned out singularly unhappy. Her
husband, although allowing for the difference of sex, he was scarcely
older than she herself at the time of the marriage--he was then
two-and-twenty--had, though so young, already managed to be
acknowledged as one of the completest _roues_ of all Paris, in spite of
the keen rivalry of his high-born compeers. He had seen in the innocent
young girl only an additional mistress whom, after a brief period, one
could neglect with the greater impunity, since one could feel sure of
her, and since she, moreover, in spite of, or perhaps, rather because
of, her pride, did not seem to belong to those troublesome women who
make 'scenes.' And indeed, after she had realised what, from another
side, was made clear to her, they had but one 'scene,' but a terrible
one, a recurrence of which was both impossible and unnecessary. He
thoroughly understood her then--and she had proved a hundred times the
stronger of the two. He was allowed to continue his own way of living,
on the one condition that he did not concern himself in the least about
hers. And hers? Well, I told you hers was a passionate nature, and she
was an unhappy wife; that combination can yield nothing but
unhappiness. Fortunately for her, she was speedily set free from the
worst impulse, the one which had poisoned and warped her passionate
nature; for her husband died. She was free once more, and vowed to
remain free. Not that she did not mean to marry again; in the circles
where she lived, she could only by a second marriage escape from the
bondage of those relationships into which one is forced as into a new
fashion, abominable though you may think either. Her second marriage
was but to guarantee her a clear position in the world; the other
guarantees for peace and for freedom she thought she bore within
herself. And so she made her choice.
"At this period of the story I became intimate with Claudine, whose
acquaintance I had previously but hurriedly made when travelling. It
was in Trouville. You know how swiftly people become intimate in a
watering-place. She introduced to me the victor in the endless row of
suitors for her hand. After careful examination I could not altogether
agree with her choice. In most points, it is true, he answered the
requirements of the programme. He was no longer young--fifty-one,
or -two; held a high command in the army, and brought her as dower a
not inglorious past. He had led a wild and wandering life, and been the
hero of a thousand adventures, but there was not the slightest stain
upon his name--at least not in the eyes of society. Moreover, though
not an intellectual man,--which she would have disliked in the long
run,--he was one of those who are able to captivate even the most
fastidious company, by their quick perception, their lively
temperament, and their varied and abundant experience, upon which they
can, aided by an excellent memory and natural eloquence, draw at all
times. All this was, as I said, excellent as far as it went; but one
thing I thought very hazardous--it seemed by no means impossible to me
that he should still be capable of a serious, passionate attachment,
and--this comes, almost to the same thing--still capable of inspiring
it. Now, either lay assuredly beyond the programme which my friend had
sketched out for herself.
"I told Claudine of my fears. She endeavoured to argue me out of them
thus: 'What you think to be real and direct light,' she would say, 'is
nothing but the reflection of the sun that set long ago upon glacial
Alpine summits. It looks beautiful, and people cry, Ah! and Oh! when
they see it; and for their sake I would not willingly miss it. But one
cannot be warmed by it, or set on fire by it! My dear child, with all
that blaze you could not make your kettle boil, far less rekindle the
bitter and bare embers of a heart like mine!'
"As far as the gentleman was concerned, Claudine might be right. At
least the somewhat boastful and exaggerated gallantry with which he
laid his homage at her feet corresponded, as far as I could judge,
exactly with her prediction. But how greatly she had been mistaken
about herself the immediate future was to show.
"There were delays before the marriage could be concluded. Both
Claudine and her friend had to free themselves from certain tender
bonds. That required tact, management, caution. Moreover, she had
become entangled in a law-suit with the family of her first husband,
which, for some reason or other, might end badly for her, if it became
known that she was contemplating a second marriage. Enough, absolute
secrecy regarding their relations and intentions was requisite for some
considerable time, and they had both taken their measures accordingly.
Claudine had retired from society, and lived in deepest seclusion near
Paris, on the estate of a widowed sister of her friend's--she, of
course, being in the secret. Her friend went to see her when he
could--which was not often the case. The requirements of the service
were just then peculiarly exacting, and it was not possible for him to
indulge in frequent absences, which anyhow, in the case of a man whom
society did not care to miss, and whose doings society carefully
controlled, would have caused remarks. The situation became even more
critical when, in spite of all precaution, Claudine's place of sojourn
had after a little been discovered, and when she saw herself watched by
her foes at every turn. At last they scarcely dared to write to each
other, dreading lest by treason on the part of bribed domestics a
letter should be intercepted or purloined. It became absolutely
indispensible to employ a thoroughly trustworthy go-between, on whom,
at the same time, it should be impossible that suspicion could fall,
and her friend found one--found him in the person of a young officer in
his regiment, the son of an old companion in arms who had fallen in the
last campaign--a young officer whom he loved like his own son, and who
was likewise devoted to his chief in most loyal love. The youth had
soon an opportunity of indeed proving that love and loyalty."
Alexandra drew a long breath, as though she were fatigued by the rapid
low-voiced utterance. In her deep black eyes which now, after a quick
survey of the still untenanted chamber, she turned upon Bertram again,
there was an uneasy light, and the soft voice quivered as she went on,
now speaking even quicker and lower than before, so that Bertram could
scarcely follow her--
"I must be more brief if I am ever to finish my story. And why, indeed,
picture in detail to a man like you what you understand without
comment, and what, understanding, you pardon! Poor Claudine! She
thought she needed no forgiveness. She thought she was in the right
when she abandoned herself without resistance to a passion, which
indeed would seem to have brooked no resistance. I had never observed
anything like this with any other woman--least of all, God be thanked,
with myself. I should simply not have deemed it possible. It was like a
hurricane--a cyclone; it was simply awful! I trembled for the reason,
for the very life of the unhappy woman: for she could not conceal from
herself that her passion was not returned, although she, being anyhow
little accustomed to control herself, and being now solely engaged by
her own overpowering feelings, neither would nor could hide her great
love from the handsome young officer. Fortunately for her, the
catastrophe was not long in coming. Nay, rather, she brought it about
herself, resolute and energetic as she always was; and now feeling that
so, and only so, she might yet save herself from herself, she forced
from him the avowal that his heart was no longer free, that it was
entirely filled by his love for a charming young girl whose
acquaintance he had made in a distant garrison-town where a portion of
his regiment had until recently been quartered, and to whom he had
become engaged in secret. The youth was bitterly poor, the girl's
parents were rich and proud; he wanted to have his captain's commission
before he ventured to apply for her hand, and--dear, dear--they were
both of them so young and so romantic, and so fond of each other, and
in their love they were so sure of the future. Why then be niggardly
with the moment? And secrecy is like a phantastic mask through the
hollow apertures of which the light in the eyes of those we love shines
with doubly seductive brilliancy.
"Claudine was at first utterly crushed by a blow which, in spite of
everything, had found her unprepared--for where is the loving heart
that would willingly let the last faint gleam of hope die out? Then
there came a fierce burst of jealous resentment, raging like a fever;
then she endeavoured to wrap herself in her pride and to see in the
idol of her heart the last and least of men; and ultimately she
grovelled at his feet and entreated him to look upon her as his slave,
and the slave of her whom he loved, and to ask from her what he would,
to bid her do what he chose, and do it she would by all that she held
sacred!
"Nor was it long before he took her at her word.
"One day he came to her presence, haggard of look, in a state of
desperation, scarcely worse than the one over which she herself had but
so recently triumphed. The girl had sent him back the half-dozen
letters which he had written to her in the twelvemonth since they were
separated, and the tiny collection of ribbons and flowers and other
tokens with which innocent love tries to prove to itself its own
fabulous fairylike existence. I know not, nor does it matter, how she
had heard the story of his connection with Claudine; not of course, the
true story, but a caricature, such as the clumsy hands of one's own
good friends and the subtle hands of one's foes are equally able to
sketch and fill in with revolting effectiveness. Anyhow, the young lady
had made up her mind, and as she belonged to those energetic characters
that cling tenaciously to their errors, things really looked desperate
for Claudine's youthful friend. Every attempt on his part to bring an
understanding about was abruptly refused; the poor fellow at last was
in downright despair; he told his sorrows to Claudine, who told him
that she would bring him back the loved one whom, for her sake, he had
lost; he looked at her with an incredulous smile. How was she--she
particularly--to manage that?
"But she had never yet let herself be baulked by difficulties if she
really cared to have her own way, even though, it might have been but a
whim. And now the noblest impulse that can fill a woman's heart urged
her to energetic action. Above all, she had to prove to herself, and to
those to whom she had so greatly boasted, that, though she had become
unfaithful to her programme, and had not guarded herself against a
passionate attachment--which she called the only real one of all her
life--she yet possessed the force to subdue this passion, and to
re-conquer her own peace of heart. Only personal interference on her
part could now bring them to the wished-for goal; but that alone would
not suffice; the friend, too, for whose sake the youth had sacrificed
himself, must needs come forward. That, of course, would completely put
an end to the secrecy of their connection, and this just at the moment
when the lawsuit was at last about to be settled, and when so much
depended upon having the veil drawn as closely as possible. For herself
no such consideration existed; but she was by no means sure that her
friend, who, of course, did not know her real motives, and could never
be allowed to know them, and who equally, of course, took things much
more coolly, thought the same; nor did she know at all whether the
young man would accept the sacrifice. So it became necessary to create
a situation, which should not leave either of them a choice, whether
they cared to join or not; and whilst she was cudgelling her brain how
to bring such a situation about, an unprecedentedly lucky accident had
already arranged everything according to her wishes, nay, far beyond
her most daring wishes, in the very best manner possible. To explain
the full details would take me too long, and is not really called for;
enough, circumstances over which they could not possibly have control,
would bring both gentlemen on a given day to the house of the parents
of the young lady in question. Claudine, still keeping her own counsel,
managed to get a day's start of them, introduced herself--by what means
I cannot remember--into the family who, I may add, was absolutely
unknown to her, and she was, having presumably got hold of some
excellent letters of recommendation or something of that sort, most
kindly received by every one, excepting, of course, the young lady
herself, who, with feelings that can be readily imagined, saw the foe
suddenly in the secure camp of her parental abode, and avoided her in
every way. That, Claudine had expected; she looked forward with glee to
the following day which was to remove all obstacles, solve all enigmas.
But who can describe her terror when she, who has eyes and ears for
everything, and who, in a few hours, was completely at home on the new
and strange ground, discovered among the visitors, besides a suitor
_sans consequence_, a man whom an abundance of exquisite gifts and
qualities and a whole sequence of special relations, every one of which
spoke for him, might turn, nay, if everything did not belie assurances,
had already turned into a terrible rival for her young friend. For ..."
Alexandra paused, glancing at the same time at the other room; then she
said with a laugh which sounded quite natural--
"But I really do not think it right to keep you any longer from the
rest of the company, and to go on with my experiment as to whether is
greater, your patience or my garrulousness. Moreover, the rest does not
properly belong to the story, at least not to the story I meant to tell
you. Come away!"
She had risen swiftly; Bertram followed her example so hesitatingly
that she could hardly leave at once. And then, having risen, he
remained standing, leaning one arm on the mantelpiece, and said--
"What a pity! What a great pity! I should have so much liked hearing
the rest. The more so, as I believe it contains a new illustration to
the moral of the fable. Or am I mistaken in assuming that the
unexpected rival is ... no longer a young man?"
His lips were smiling; still Alexandra thought that his large
expressive eyes we're resting upon her with a very meaning, very
searching look; yet she managed to put on an air of surprise, deeming
it absolutely requisite now.
"Indeed!" she exclaimed. "How very curious! But then there is no hiding
anything from you clever men!"
"Oh yes, yes. For example, which of the two suitors succeeded--the
older and younger, or the newer and older?"
"Charming! Charming! An exquisite play on the words. What a suitable
language yours is for that kind of thing, in the hands of a real
master, I mean. Ah! which succeeds? Why, the former, of course!"
"I should scarcely have considered it such a matter of course. I should
not be surprised if, for all that, the young lady's feelings for him
had never again recovered the former degree of warmth. Your beautiful
and clever friend, I admire her extremely, but--do not be angry with me
for what I am going to say--but I had, during your description of her,
always to think of Circe. There was only one man who left the palace of
the sorceress with absolute impunity, and he only by the aid of a
certain herb a god had given him. Now, young and ardent officers are
not said to meet the god very frequently."
"But I really cannot make the story anything different from what it
truly was like," cried the Princess, half pouting, half laughing.
"Certainly not; but what became of the man who was no longer young? How
bore he the loss of hopes to which he had clung all the more
tenaciously because he had not many more to lose?"
"That, as a punishment for your scepticism, you are to say yourself."
"How can I? Had he been a poet he might have written a novel, after the
manner of the 'Elective Affinities,' and thus cleared his soul from the
purgatory of jealousy and humiliation. But being no poet ..."
"How do you know that?"
"I assume it. I am driven to assume things, am I not?"
"Well then?"
"Therefore his ultimate fate is quite problematical to me. There are so
many and such various possibilities. Perhaps he killed himself, or
perhaps he married your fair friend."
"My friend--Claudine? Oh, this is exquisite!" The Princess laughed
aloud, and Bertram laughed too.
"It is not," he said, "after all so very laughable, or at least so very
improbable. Upon the basis of mutual imperturbability, I should think
one could erect and overthrow and rebuild relationships, like houses of
cards."
"Mow malicious!" cried Alexandra, "and yet how true! Claudine must hear
of this; I must write this to Claudine!"
"For goodness sake not, most gracious lady; or, anyhow, do not mention
me by name! I travel a good deal, the lady probably too; we might meet
some day by some unlucky chance, even as the luckiest of chances has
brought me into your presence. How hideously embarrassed I should be!"
"Very well, your name shall not be mentioned, then. Here is my hand in
pledge of this."
And she held out to him her small hand with its many rings.
"But now I really must disturb your tete-a-tete," said Hildegard,
entering from the adjoining drawing-room.
"It is just finished!" the Princess called out to her; then turning
again to Bertram, she said, "And thank you very much for a most
charming _causerie_!"
"It is for me to say thank you, my Lady. Your story was most
interesting, and you told it capitally."
He touched those slim fingers with his lips as Alexandra left him. She
hurried up to Hildegard, who had remained standing, gazing with great
wondering eyes at the group by the fireside, and putting her arm
through that of her hostess and drawing her away with her, the Russian
lady whispered--
"You are absolutely mistaken, or else the man is the greatest actor I
ever saw."
Bertram had bent over the fire; with his left hand he was half
unconsciously stirring up the dying embers in the grate, his right hand
was laid on the rose he wore, which he wore above a heart now quivering
in spasmodic agony, and he painfully whispered to himself--
"Ashes to ashes!"
His hand, nerveless, glided down.
"No," he murmured, "no, not yet; I will hear it from herself."