The door closed behind the colonel, and Leo was once more alone, free
to indulge in his own reflections. What troubled him most was his
father's resolve to fight Bertram. It was but too certain that the
obstinate old soldier would act upon his determination as soon as
possible. In imagination he saw his father fall in a conflict with the
man who had so insulted himself, and forgetting his own future, he
thought only of how this duel might be prevented.
A sudden idea flashed upon him, showing him he hoped a means of
attaining this end. In the greatest haste he changed his dress, laying
aside his uniform forever,--since he had already handed in his
resignation and received leave of absence, he no longer considered
himself as belonging to the service, and he hoped, moreover, in the
dress of a civilian to escape immediate recognition on the part of his
former comrades.
Once more he paused before the picture on the easel, and murmured as he
gazed at it, "All this is your work. You drive me forth into the world;
you have destroyed all my hopes; and yet I cannot chide you,--not even
although you turn from me those dark, enchanting eyes! Farewell! I dare
not gaze longer into their depths: they bewilder my heart and soul, and
now I need every faculty I possess to help me to carve out my future.
Farewell, forever! I must see you never again!"
After one long, last look, he took the portrait from the easel and
leaned it with its face against the wall. Then he hurriedly left the
room and the house.
In the street, seeing Count Waldheim in the distance, and wishing to
avoid all discussion of his affairs with any one for the present, he
turned in an opposite direction, called a fiacre, and was driven
rapidly to a retired and extremely handsome villa in the suburbs. Here
a footman in rich livery instantly appeared, opened the carriage-door,
and evidently had been taught to regard Leo as an honoured guest.
"Is Herr Delmar at home?"
"To you, Herr Lieutenant, but to no one else. My master is at dinner,
but he has given orders that you are to be admitted at all hours. I
will announce you immediately."
"No need, I will announce myself."
"As you please, Herr Lieutenant; my master dines in the garden-room."
Leo nodded in answer to the man's low bow, and then hurriedly passed
through the hall and several antechambers on his way to the familiar
garden-room. He paid no heed to the more than princely luxury of the
surroundings, scarcely even glancing at the splendid pictures with
which the walls were hung, but hurried on.
Surrounded by rare tropical plants, in a room the walls of which were
almost entirely of glass, but kept perfectly cool by the constant play
of a fountain, a table was spread, at which sat Herr Paul Delmar, with
a liveried servant behind his chair.
The lord of this magnificent villa, of several other princely estates,
and of a capital of several millions, was a young man thirty years old
at most,--not strictly handsome, but of an interesting, cheerful
countenance, in which sparkled a pair of brilliant black eyes. The nose
was too large and the skin too sallow for beauty, otherwise the
features were admirable, and the whole bearing and air of the man
extremely attractive, especially when the face was lit up by the
frequent half-kindly, half-ironical smile.
"Is that you, Leo?" he cried to the new-comer. "A rare guest, indeed;
sit down. A place for Herr von Heydeck," he gave orders to the servant.
"No, no, Paul, I cannot; thanks," Leo replied.
"Have you dined?"
"No, but----"
"Then I'll take no excuse. Not on your account, Leo; you know how
selfish I am,--my own comfort is my chief care. Nothing would taste as
it should with you sitting there fasting and hungry."
"But I'm not hungry; I assure you I have not the least appetite."
"But I have, and you shall not spoil it by sitting there eating nothing
and watching me. There is nothing in this world of more importance than
a good dinner; I pity any man who does not know how to appreciate so
refined an enjoyment. A bad dinner is the greatest of losses: it can
never be repaired,--it has gone forever! He only who knows how to eat
appreciates the full value of life. Here is your plate, Leo,--my Jean
is an active fellow,--and now take your soup; season it as you like it,
and, for heaven's sake, look like a reasonable being. Such a long face
as yours is as bad for the soup as if the cook had over-salted it."
Delmar set his friend an excellent example, which Leo gradually
followed. The events of the day had made him forget his dinner and turn
from the idea of food, but youth and health soon asserted themselves,
and to his host's satisfaction he did ample justice to the admirable
repast before him.
During dinner he did not touch upon what he had come to say,--he knew
that his friend disliked all disturbing emotions during his meal-times,
and as he wished to secure his entire and undivided attention he waited
until the servant had brought coffee and retired before he began. "I
have come to you to-day, Paul, to ask you to help me."
"Indeed! I shall be only too delighted; but I mistrust you,--you know
it is an old quarrel between us that you always give and never accept."
"To-day I will accept, and a great service from you too,--if you will
do it for me."
"Anything in my power, Leo, is done for you before you ask it. You
could hardly ask too much, as you know."
"I knew what you would say, Paul," the other cried, grasping his
friend's hand cordially.
But Paul withdrew it with a smile. "For heaven's sake don't be
sentimental," he said; "and pray don't imagine that I stir a finger for
you out of consideration for you. Everything that I do, I do solely for
my own sake. It gives me pleasure to do something for you,--it disturbs
the tedious monotony of existence. I may perhaps hit upon something
entertaining; that is why, and only why, you could hardly ask too much
of me! You know very well that I am an incorrigible egotist, and
therefore, and because I am devoured by curiosity, tell me what you
want."
"You shall learn, you miserable egotist, whom gross selfishness drives
to any amount of self-sacrifice for a friend; but before I tell you you
must know what has happened to-day." And Leo described calmly and
frankly the events of the day.
When he repeated his expressions with regard to Eva Schommer Delmar
gave a nod of assent, and said, "A severe but perfectly correct summary
of the heiress's character. I met her to-day just as you were
discoursing so amiably about her. I rode past her carriage and had a
most gracious bow. The fair Eva knows that my millions outnumber her
own, and esteems me accordingly. You are right, Leo; pride of purse is
more disgusting than pride of birth. Fraeulein Schommer is an odious
creature."
Paul gave one keen glance at Leo as he spoke, and noticed that the
latter suddenly flushed as he replied, "Certainly _you_ have no right,
Paul, to speak thus of Fraeulein Schommer. I did not know that she had
injured you."
"I am not speaking of myself. I was only confirming your judgment, your
own words."
"Which I acknowledge to have been hasty and unjust. You do not dream,
Paul, what disastrous results they had for me. Listen!"
Paul smiled and nodded, promising not to interrupt again; but he did
not keep his word, for when his friend described Bertram's
interference, and repeated word for word what he had said, he started
up in violent agitation, threw away the cigar which he had just
lighted, and exclaimed, "What! the scoundrel dared to accuse you of
dishonourable conduct? Is the fellow mad? And what did you do, Leo?
Struck him across the face with the flat of your sword I trust as he
deserves. At all events, I hope you were not insane enough to challenge
a rogue who could not insult you?"
"You know my principles with regard to duelling."
"Of courage; but who thinks of principles in such a case? I envy you
the capacity to do so. Fortunately then you did not challenge him. Of
course you gave him a suitable memento of the occasion? Go on, Leo; I
will control my cursed temper if I can and not interrupt again."
He lighted another cigar and leaning back in his chair kept his word
this time. With exemplary patience he listened while Leo
circumstantially related all that had occurred: his conversation with
Colonel von Herwarth, his resignation from the service, and then his
interview with his father, finally giving Delmar his uncle Ferdinand's
letter to read.
As the story went on Paul was strongly tempted to break his promise. He
moved uneasily in his chair when Leo told of his resignation, and when
he heard that the old colonel proposed calling out Bertram he was on
the point of bursting into a rage, but he controlled himself, and
suppressed all comment. On the other hand, he quite chuckled over the
old colonel's command that his son should forbear to earn his living by
honest labour, and instead rescue the family honour by a wealthy
marriage. And he read through Ferdinand's letter without a word.
"Now, Paul, you know everything," Leo said in conclusion, "and you must
have some suspicion of what I want of you. It lies in your power to
prevent any duel between my father and Bertram. You once hinted to me
in confidence that you were privy to some disgraceful conduct of
Bertram's. You have but to tell my father of this, and his principles
will forbid his calling out a scoundrel. This is why I am come to you.
I am sure you will relieve me of this anxiety, which is the worst that
I have to endure at present."
Paul leaned back comfortably in his arm-chair and blew forth several
artistically-formed rings of smoke, then sipped his coffee and
proceeded to blow forth more rings, as was his custom when buried in
reflection.
His silence troubled Leo. "You do not answer me, Paul. Can you not or
will you not help me? I remember you were with Bertram a great deal
last winter, but I never really regarded you as his friend."
"Friend of that scoundrel? I wouldn't give that for his friendship!"
And he snapped his fingers. "He was my slave," he continued. "I paid
him well, that I might get rid of him when I did not want to use him
any longer, and I will do it now! Cast the shadow from your brow, you
anxious, heavily-principled son of a hot-headed father. This
nonsensical duel is out of the question. I promise you that I will
prevent it. I settled that in my mind instantly, and it seemed such
child's play to me that I had ceased to think of it. I was thinking of
you, Leo; the fact is that I am more and more convinced that you are
the strangest, most enigmatical human being on God's earth. I regard
you as I should some fabled monster of prehistoric times. We have grown
up together, I thought I knew you, and yet you are continually taking
me by surprise."
"I really cannot see what eccentricity of mine has just at present
provoked this rather unflattering outburst," Leo remarked, not very
well pleased.
"I suppose not; the fact is it is useless to be surprised at you, for
you are made up of eccentricities and never do anything like other
people. You are an artist and a scholar, opposed on principle to war,
nevertheless you became an officer in the army, and behaved like a hero
in the field. You have a friend--a millionaire--who desires nothing
more ardently than to serve you, and you live with the greatest economy
upon your meagre pay, denying yourself every enjoyment, although I
confess you never look like a poor man. You are a democrat of the
purest type, and yet get along delightfully with your aristocratic
comrades without ever being false to your principles."
"I should have thought all this was nothing new to you."
"True; but to-day you have capped the climax of your inconsistencies.
You say yourself that it pains you to send in your resignation, and yet
you do it, although you could by a single word have crushed to the
earth the infamous coward who insulted you, and who of course knew that
you would not call him out. You cannot fight a scoundrel any more than
can your father. You might have done for yourself what you have done
for him."
"That would have been cowardice, and a falsehood besides; for I refrain
from calling Bertram out not because the fellow is a scoundrel, but
because I consider duelling criminal. I will never disgrace myself by
hypocrisy and a denial of my principles."
"Heroism! extraordinary, antediluvian heroism! I repeat, I regard you
with admiring awe, Leo; although I, poor grovelling earth-worm that I
am, cannot climb to your sublime heights. And this is just why I am so
infatuated about you,--for if you were like me! should find you as
desperately tiresome as all the rest of the world,--and why I am
anxious about you, for with your prehistoric truth and honour you'll
hardly have much luck in this present world. Just now for example, you
are in a charming little scrape, and I am really anxious to know how
you will pull through it. You have sent in your resignation and have to
begin life with nothing, or next to nothing. Tell me frankly how much
money you have laid by, for I am convinced that you are an admirable
economist and have contrived to lay by something."
"No, I have laid by nothing, but I inherited from my mother about two
thousand thalers which I have never touched, and which will be amply
sufficient to support me until I have arranged my future existence."
"And you are going to diminish that pittance? Will you not at last be
reasonable, Leo, and see that you can give me no greater pleasure----"
"Not a word more, Paul! You know that you can never offend me except by
offering me money."
"I am dumb, but I cannot suppress the remark that you are a greater
egotist than I. What the deuce is the good of my money if the man whom
I love best in the world will never take a penny of it, and looks as if
he would bite me if I so mach as mention his doing so? But there, I am
dumb. I must take you as you are. You will live on your two thousand
thalers then until you have arranged your future existence,--what sort
of an existence? I am greatly mistaken if you contemplate acceding to
your amiable uncle's proposal."
"Never! the mere idea of marrying for money disgusts me!"
"I thought so. For my part, my sentiments are expressed in the saying,
'Wealth is no disgrace, and poverty no virtue;' but you would of course
refuse your cousin Hilda's hand, just because she happened to be
wealthy."
"No; if I loved her and was loved by her, I should, although I admit it
would be difficult and against the grain, try to forget that she was
rich; but I do not love her, and I never can love her!"
"You don't know her yet. To be sure, judging from her father, whose
letter is not exactly instinct in every line with delicacy of
sentiment, there is not very much to be expected of her; but she may,
nevertheless, be an extremely charming girl."
"And if she were,--if she were possessed of the beauty and amiability
of an angel,--still I could never love her!"
"In--deed, in--deed? You seem surprisingly secure in your knowledge of
yourself. Hm! I suspected as much. I remarked, you may remember, that
you were in a deuce of a scrape. You'll have, at all events, to
sacrifice some one of your principles, for I suppose you number filial
duty among them. Do you forget that your father threatens to disown you
if you sully his name by quill-driving or daubing canvas for a living,
and if you do not start to-morrow for the Tyrol to see your uncle? Take
one piece of advice from me, Leo: obey this last demand of your
father's. Go to the Tyrol and make your uncle a visit,--you bind
yourself to nothing by doing so. It cannot hurt you just to look at
your cousin Hilda--the name sounds really very pretty--besides, it is
best for you to be out of the way for the present of all the gossip
that there will be here. Nothing surely can be more beneficial to your
art than a sojourn among the glorious Alps. Be reasonable for once,
Leo. Time is everything to you now. In time your father, even though he
be as thick-skulled as yourself, must listen to reason, and see that a
Heydeck can work without disgrace if he has not money enough to live
upon."
Paul's advice was so reasonable that Leo could not but accept it.
Undesirable as nearer intercourse with his uncle and cousin must be,
judging from the letter which had produced a very unfavourable
impression, he could not but feel it his duty to conquer his aversion
to the journey which his father had enjoined upon him. Paul was right;
it was very desirable to gain time, for only with time was there any
chance of combating successfully the old soldier's prejudices. And so,
after a short pause of reflection, Leo declared that he would follow
his friend's advice and set out for the Tyrol the next morning, if
Delmar would first assure him that the duel between the old colonel and
Bertram should not take place.
"You may be certain of it this very evening," Delmar said, highly
delighted. "My slave is bound to me by such fetters that if I choose he
will ask your pardon on his knees!"
"That I do not desire."
"What you desire does not concern me at present, but that I fulfil my
promise and make this crazy duel impossible for your father, and that
shall be done immediately. Do me a favour in return, I pray. Take me
with you to the Tyrol to-morrow."
"You want to go to the Tyrol with me?"
"Yes, I do; it is horribly tiresome and stupid here in K----. I cannot
stand it any longer. I want to breathe Alpine air."
"But, Paul, we cannot possibly travel together. Remember I must husband
my means and travel third-class, and stop at second-rate inns."
"I will travel third-class with you; it will be a change, and much
cooler and pleasanter in summer."
"But the second-class hotels? Do you forget what you said only a little
while ago about a bad dinner?"
"For heaven's sake don't call me to account for all the nonsense I
talk! In short, I want to go with you. We will travel afoot, student
fashion, and sketch and amuse ourselves as we can. Of course you will
have to stay with your uncle at Castle Reifenstein, but there will
surely be a tolerable inn somewhere near, where I can take up my
quarters. I want to be at hand to see what becomes of you."
"Do you insist then upon making this sacrifice for me, Paul?"
"For the love of heaven don't grow sentimental again! I have no idea of
making any sacrifice for you. I am not thinking of you, but of myself.
I shall like the joke of it, of travelling afoot instead of _en
millionnaire_, I wish to study life in its various phases, with you for
my companion. On the whole, you see, you are a very entertaining
fellow, that is all. Pure selfishness,--nothing else, I assure you. So
now go home and pack your portmanteau, that we may start early
to-morrow, while I look for our mutual friend at Buechner's, where he is
sure to be at this time, and where I propose to rattle his chains in
his ears."
Bertram had at last attained the summit of his hopes. The lovely
heiress, Eva Schommer, was his betrothed; his dearest wish was
fulfilled, and yet he could not thoroughly enjoy his good fortune. He
listened most amiably to the congratulations of the astonished and
delighted Uncle Balthasar, and to those also of Aunt Minni, who was
less astonished and less delighted, or at all events refrained from any
distinct expression of astonishment and delight. He reciprocated
good-humoured old Balthasar's expressions of esteem and good will, but
yet he could not help feeling as if the betrothal in some way were not
genuine.
And yet Eva, her resolution once taken, accommodated herself to her
position with much more readiness than Bertram would, from what she had
said to him, have supposed possible. She received her uncle's and
aunt's congratulations pleasantly, and when Uncle Balthasar suggested
that she should address her lover familiarly by his Christian name, and
seal their betrothal with a kiss, she refused it is true, but not
unkindly and with a smile. She gave Bertram permission to make the
betrothal public after the usual fashion, by sending cards to all their
acquaintances, but insisted that all congratulations should be
addressed solely to him, positively refusing to receive the usual
congratulatory visits. The next day, if her kind uncle Balthasar was
agreed, she meant to leave K---- for several weeks or even months.
At this unexpected intelligence Uncle Balthasar opened his eyes in
astonishment. "Good gracious, Eva my dear," he said, "the thing is
impossible! You can't think of going alone, and how are we all to be
ready by to-morrow?"
But Eva declared that it would be very easy. She had long desired to
see Switzerland or the Tyrol, and very little luggage was necessary for
a journey to the mountains. Nanette and Wilhelm could easily get
everything ready in the course of the evening: she herself and Aline
might assist; and, if her kind uncle and aunt would only not say no,
nothing should hinder their departure by noon the next day in the
express train.
When did Uncle Balthasar ever say no to any request of his niece's? He
could no more do so than could Aunt Minni, who with a gentle sigh
resigned herself to her fate, and only asked meekly whither they were
going; a question which Eva could not answer. She begged her uncle to
decide where to go,--it would perhaps be best that he should consult
with Aline,--there was the whole evening in which to make their choice.
Eva never asked Bertram's advice as to their destination, and when,
with some hesitation, he asked whether it would not be possible to
postpone for one day their departure, in order that his aunt, Madame
von Sturmhaupt, might express to Eva the pleasure she would so surely
feel in her nephew's betrothal, he received from Eva so quiet and firm
a refusal by way of reply, that it was plain to see that he was not to
found upon the fact of his betrothal any right to make requests.
She declared positively that she would receive no congratulatory
visits,--not one. Her intention to leave K---- on the morrow was, since
Uncle Balthasar had given his consent to the plan, unalterable, and
would assuredly be put into execution.
This was very sharp and decided, but the effect of it was a little
softened when Eva kindly added that she hoped Herr von Bertram would
spend this last evening before her departure in her home-circle, and
that when he returned with the intelligence that his quarrel with Herr
von Heydeck was satisfactorily adjusted, he should learn whither they
intended to go.
This was a distinct dismissal and reminder that his promise was yet to
be fulfilled, and Bertram thus understood it.
He kissed the hand which Eva extended to him, did the same by Aunt
Minni, and took his departure, refusing Uncle Balthasar's offer to
accompany him, on the ground that only the absence of all formal
ceremony on the old man's part could make him really feel like a member
of the family.
But this was not his reason for desiring to leave the room alone; he
had a presentiment that he should find Nanette in the antechamber,
and he had good grounds for wishing to see her alone. He was not
deceived,--the first thing that met his eyes as the door of the
drawing-room closed behind him was the waiting-maid, who was busy very
near the door. She greeted him with a low courtesy; her face was
crimson, and she regarded him with a malicious smile as she whispered,
"I give you joy, Herr Lieutenant----"
"You have been listening!"
"Of course; what was I here for?" she replied, pertly.
"I am not blaming you, my dear; quite the contrary."
"Oh, indeed, I'm not going to listen for you. It is bad enough without
that to have brought me here to this proud Zantuppy. I hate her, I do!
And I'll not stand it long in this low place, let me tell you! 'Tis a
sin and a shame that I must look on while you betroth yourself to the
creature, and you asking me to help you, too!"
In her agitation Nanette forgot to whisper, as she had done when she
first addressed Bertram. She did not speak loudly, although
sufficiently so to cause Bertram fear lest she should be heard in the
drawing-room.
"Do be quiet; speak softly, my dear girl," he begged, seizing her hand.
"You know it is only out of love for you, and that I may be able to
provide more handsomely for you, that I am forced to make a wealthy
marriage. But we cannot talk here,--we may be discovered at any moment.
Come early to-morrow to my aunt's; I will be there. Keep your eyes
open, my dear child, for both our sakes. Farewell, my little darling,
till we meet."
He looked cautiously towards the door: it was tightly closed; he then
snatched one kiss from the extremely placable Nanette and was gone.
This meeting with Nanette did but increase his anxiety of mind. The tie
that bound him to Eva was as yet but weak and frail; until the
betrothal was publicly known it might easily be dissolved, which it
certainly would be if Eva's desire with regard to the quarrel with
Heydeck were not fulfilled. It was of the first importance that this
tie should be made firm and indissoluble, and to this end he must act
with energy and promptitude.
He decided upon a plan of action as soon as he left the villa, but he
did not proceed to its execution with any very great satisfaction, for
he was staking his whole future upon a single card. He had made an
appointment with Count Waldheim to meet him at the Casino, and thither
he betook himself. This interview with Waldheim was the first step in
the carrying out of his scheme; the first, and by no means the
easiest,--he dreaded it.
Waldheim was a gay young officer, but a man of stainless honour,
wherefore Bertram considered him a most important ally. He dreaded
greatly lest he should refuse him his support.
When he reached the Casino he found to his satisfaction that it was
nearly deserted. Count Waldheim sat solitary at a table in the large
dining-hall, a cup of coffee before him, reading a newspaper. He had
remained there solely to redeem his promise to Bertram. "You have
sorely tried my patience," he grumbled, when the man he had been
waiting for at last appeared. "I have been bored here for more than an
hour."
"You will forgive me I know, my dear Count, when you learn that the
hour has brought me the fulfilment of my dearest hopes. You are the
first to learn from me the intelligence of my betrothal to Fraeulein Eva
Schommer!"
"Ah--I give you joy!"
The wish did not sound quite cordial, preceded as it was by a
long-drawn-out 'ah,' not at all flattering in emphasis; but Bertram
took no notice of this. He knew Waldheim's opinion of the connection,
and he refrained from saying anything to induce a further expression of
it.
"I am a fortunate man," he continued; "and to you, to your friendship,
I owe my good fortune. Everything has happened as I had anticipated it
would. After your speaking, according to your promise, to Balthasar,
Eva sent for me. I should never have dared to declare myself to her if
she had maintained her former cold reserve, but in this interview her
pride gave way,--her heart betrayed itself. Her agitation, her maidenly
terror, lent me courage. I confessed my love for her; she did not
reject it, and thus I may thank you for my present happiness."
"You do not owe it to me, but to your own skilful play," the Count
replied. "I only hope you will be as content in the end as you are at
present; that you will not find Herr von Heydeck's friend waiting for
you at your rooms."
"No fear of that; but indeed, to speak frankly, I am now extremely
sorry for my attack upon Heydeck. I wish I could recall it."
"What! when it has been the means of your betrothal?"
"Yes, in spite of that, for I cannot but feel that I have done very
wrong. I have attacked a man who possesses no means of defence. I
thought Heydeck a coward, and was content to insult him, but I have
learned better. He will not challenge me; he will bear my insult
unavenged; not from cowardice, but because his principles forbid his
fighting a duel, and he will sooner endure any disgrace than be false
to them."
"Impossible! you are dreaming!"
"No, I am sure of what I say,--sure. If you doubt it ask Heydeck's best
friend, Herr von Herwarth, who will confirm my words."
"Did Herr von Herwarth give you this extraordinary piece of
intelligence?"
"No; I learned it from another source quite as trustworthy. I am not at
liberty to say more with regard to it, but I am in a most embarrassing
position. I have mortally insulted a man whose principles forbid his
avenging the insult, which will consequently ruin his future career. He
will be forced to leave the service in disgrace, and he has no fortune.
In spite of his strange ideas Heydeck is an excellent officer. I cannot
reconcile it to my conscience that I have been the means of driving so
good an officer from the army. Advise me, my dear Count, what to do in
this case."
Count Waldheim listened with increasing surprise to Bertram's words. "I
advise you?" he replied. "I am utterly confused by the contradictory
statements you make. Heydeck is an excellent officer and no coward, and
yet his principles require him to prefer disgrace to duelling. This is
incredible--a contradiction in terms. And then your sudden regret, this
tender consideration for the man whom, saving your presence, you
wilfully and grossly insulted to serve your own purpose. I cannot
understand you nor advise you."
"I feared so, for unfortunately the whole matter is so strange that my
regret must seem incomprehensible. Who can advise me if you, who saw
the whole affair, cannot? I cannot be the ruin of this unfortunate man.
He is capable of putting a bullet through his brains in his despair,
and if by my fault he should do so I never should forgive myself. If
you will not and cannot advise me, I must follow the dictates of my
conscience. I must retract my offensive expressions to Heydeck in the
presence of witnesses and ask his pardon."
"This then is what you wished to lead up to by the extraordinary story
you have been telling me, Herr von Bertram," the Count said, with
undisguised contempt in voice and look. He arose and buckled the belt
of his sabre. "Do what you think best, or, as you are pleased to
express it, 'follow the dictates of your conscience,' but pray do not
require me or your other comrades to believe that Herr von Heydeck's
unerring aim with a pistol has no share in your magnanimous resolve!"
Casting a last contemptuous glance at Bertram, the Count was about to
leave him, but the dragoon detained him. "You must not leave me thus,
Count Waldheim," he said, "with a suspicion in your mind of my courage
and integrity. The disgraceful doubt which you have expressed gives me
a claim upon your honour to see that justice is done me. I now request
you to see Herr von Heydeck and learn from his own lips the
confirmation of what I told you. If he announces his intention of
calling me out for insulting him, I entirely resign all thought of
begging his pardon. I shall gladly accept his challenge, and rely upon
the fulfilment of your promise to act as my second. If, on the other
hand, he confirms what I told you, and will not send me a challenge
because his principles will not allow of his doing so, you will tell
him from me that I shall await him at Buechner's to retract my words in
the presence of witnesses. Only by fulfilling this my request, Count
Waldheim, can you atone for the shameful suspicion which you have
expressed of an old friend and comrade."
Bertram had his voice and countenance under perfect control, and was
moreover, as we have said, an excellent actor. His simulated
indignation would have deceived a much keener observer than honest
Count Waldheim, and it produced the effect he had intended. Waldheim
felt ashamed of his hasty judgment; he acknowledged that he had sinned
against friendship for a comrade, and, in his regret for having done
so, he consented to do as Bertram requested, which in any other case he
would hardly have done. He promised to find Heydeck, and either to
bring him to Buechner's or to return to Bertram with the intelligence
that he might expect a challenge.
With a pressure of the hand, which the Count returned but half
cordially, Bertram bade him farewell, and took a long and roundabout
way to Buechner's, where the momentous interview was to take place.
When he reached the restaurant most of the tables beneath the awning
were already occupied by the officers of the various regiments in
garrison at K----. Many of those present had been witnesses of the
morning's occurrence, and all were perfectly informed of what had taken
place. The affair had made a great stir among the corps of officers, as
Bertram could plainly see by the gloomy looks with which he was
regarded by his comrades, some of whom took evident pains to avoid
seeing him, that they might not be forced to return his salute.
His self-satisfied mood was somewhat impaired by the annoyance that the
evident avoidance of his comrades caused him. He would have liked to
turn away and leave the restaurant, but he had promised to wait for
Count Waldheim and Heydeck. He looked round to find a seat. If any
table had been quite unoccupied he would have seated himself at it; but
there was not one such to be found,--a few single seats were empty, and
towards one of these he made his way. It was at a corner table, and two
of the officers of his own regiment, and his personal acquaintances,
were already seated at it.
He approached, and, nodding with his usual easy familiarity, he asked,
without noticing the icy acknowledgment of his greeting,--
"Is this chair taken?"
"No," was the reply, "nor the table either; we are just going." And the
two men arose and with a brief salutation left the table, although
their coffee-cups were scarcely half emptied. That they left simply to
avoid Bertram's society was evident, since they stopped near another
table, and, entering into conversation with some acquaintances, ordered
a waiter to bring chairs. Thus they did not leave the place, but took
their seats at another table.
Bertram bit his lips in a rage, but he was powerless to resent the
silent contempt of his comrades. He could not demand satisfaction for
cold glances and slighting acknowledgments of his salute. He was
excessively uncomfortable among these men whom he had been wont to call
his friends, but who avoided him as they would not have done had they
been strangers. The minutes passed on leaden wings; he cast many an
expectant glance towards the promenade outside, but full half an hour
elapsed before Count Waldheim appeared--alone. The Count's humour was
apparently none of the best: his brow was dark. He came up to the table
at which Bertram was sitting, but did not take the chair which the
dragoon pushed forward for him. As he stood beside it he said,--
"I did not find Herr von Heydeck at home; his servant told me that he
had gone out just before, in plain clothes; whither he could not say,
nor did he know when his master would return. From there I went to Herr
von Herwarth, whom I found at home, and I asked him frankly if he knew
anything of Heydeck's intentions with regard to your affair."
"Well? He must have confirmed what I told you."
"He did and he did not. At first he seemed unwilling to speak out. He
believed Herr von Heydeck had not as yet made up his mind. He displayed
a certain hesitation, a reserve, which I only overcame by extreme
frankness. I asked him directly whether it were true that Herr von
Heydeck was opposed to duelling from principle, and he admitted that it
was so, but expressed the hope that in this case his friend would prove
false to his principles and comply with the law of honour. I thought
myself justified after this in telling him exactly what had passed
between us, and it was well that I did so, for Herr von Herwarth is a
man of honour, and quite agrees with me that this matter can be
honourably adjusted only by a duel. He promised to find Herr von
Heydeck, and to use all his influence with him to induce him to
repudiate his extraordinary principles, and only in case he should
prove unsuccessful is he to tell him that he will find you here,
prepared to make him full reparation. I hope I have acted according to
your wishes, Herr von Bertram."
This was not precisely the case, but Bertram dared not confess that the
insistance upon the duel was not at all according to his wishes, and he
thanked Waldheim warmly for his services.
While engaged in conversation with the Count, he had not noticed that
there had suddenly arisen an unwonted stir among the military men
assembled at Buechner's. All eyes were turned towards an aged officer,
who had just appeared beneath the awning. He was standing at the
entrance, leaning on a stout bamboo cane, scanning the assemblage; his
grave stern glance passed from table to table, apparently seeking some
one whom he could not readily distinguish among the numbers of officers
present.
"Gentlemen, does either of you know First Lieutenant von Bertram?" the
old man asked of two young infantry officers, who were seated at a
table playing dominoes.
Before either could reply, Paul Delmar, who had appeared beneath the
awning simultaneously with the old man, answered, "Do you wish to speak
to Herr von Bertram, colonel? Yonder he sits beneath the awning, but in
the farthest comer. Count Waldheim is standing beside him."
"My old eyes are not worth much," growled the colonel. "Sir, I thank
you. Your face is familiar to me, but just at present I cannot recall
your name; my memory leaves me in the lurch. 'Tis the curse of old age;
my senses fail me, and even my memory forsakes me."
"It is many years, colonel, since I had the honour of seeing you, and I
may well be changed since then. I went to school with your son, and as
his friend used to be continually at your house. My name is Paul
Delmar."
"Ah, little Paul, son of the wealthy banker. It is indeed long since I
saw you last. And you know Herr von Bertram?"
"I do, colonel."
"Then do me the favour to conduct me to him and introduce me. I have
something to say to the gentleman, and I know him but slightly, or
rather not at all. Will you oblige me?"
"Certainly, colonel; this way, if you please."
Delmar led the way, the colonel following slowly. Every step evidently
caused the old man pain, but he mastered it and walked on, leaning
heavily on his cane, and saluted respectfully on all sides by the
younger officers, who looked after him with unfeigned sympathy.
When he reached the table at which Bertram was sitting, Delmar said, by
way of introduction, "Herr Premier Lieutenant von Bertram, Colonel von
Heydeck."
Bertram sprang up and suddenly became very pale at sight of the old
officer, whose approach he had not noticed. A grim smile hovered upon
the old man's lips as he remarked the impression he produced; his tall,
slightly bent figure straightened itself proudly as he gazed scornfully
at the dragoon, whose glance could not meet the eyes so bent upon him.
"I have asked for an introduction, Herr von Bertram," said the colonel,
in a loud voice that was distinctly heard everywhere beneath the
awning, "that I might call you to account for a scoundrelly----"
"Stay, colonel! You must not go on!" Paul Delmar interrupted the old
man at this point.
"Sir, by what earthly right?" the colonel burst out, angrily.
"I appeal to your honour, colonel. I am firmly convinced that it is an
unalterable axiom of yours that no man of honour can fight with a
scoundrel whose word is worthless, and it is one of my axioms that no
man of honour has the right to quarrel with a scoundrel with whom he
cannot fight. Herr von Bertram is no opponent for you. You can no more
fight with Herr von Bertram than can any words spoken by him insult
your son; and, besides, there shall be not the smallest provocation for
your challenge, inasmuch as the gentleman will instantly declare before
all present that he recalls every offensive word addressed to your son
this morning, and that he humbly begs pardon for having uttered them."
Paul's words produced a truly magical effect. Bertram upon whom all
eyes were fixed, stood, with downcast looks, like a condemned criminal
incapable of any reply, the consciousness of guilt so manifest in his
countenance that even the unsuspicious Count Waldheim was disgusted
with his friend's cowardice, and stepped back leaving him standing
alone.
The colonel was thunderstruck. That a civilian should dare to treat an
officer thus in a public place transcended his power of belief; his
amazement deprived him of utterance. He looked from Bertram to Delmar.
What to think of it all he did not know. But one thing was perfectly
clear,--that Herr von Bertram must be a scoundrel, with whom no man of
honour could condescend to fight.
Delmar allowed several seconds to pass to give the old officer time to
collect himself, and then continued: "Let me beg, colonel, that you
will allow me to say several words to Herr von Bertram in private,
after which you shall receive from him any satisfaction you may desire.
Herr von Bertram, have the kindness to step into this empty room with
me. You cannot but desire that what I have to say should be said in
private. Go first, if you please."
Paul motioned towards the glass door of a room frequented by Buechner's
guests in winter or in rainy weather. Bertram entered it, and Delmar
followed him. They were quite alone in the large, empty room, and could
speak in low tones without being overheard, although a hundred eyes
were watching them through the wide folding-doors and open windows.
"You have heard what I require of you, Herr von Bertram," Delmar began
the short interview. "I advise you to comply immediately, or you will
force me to produce a certain worthless note, in which you promise to
pay upon your word of honour, and to prove that you have broken that
word by showing a certain check, bearing the signature of Count
Waldheim, which I should like to have him verify."
"What have I done, Delmar, to provoke you to treat a friend with such
cruelty?" Bertram asked, in despair.
"Do not profane the word _friend_," Delmar replied, sternly. "I never
honoured you with my friendship, as you well know. I never concealed my
contempt for you. I bought you with my money. It amused me for a while
to be introduced to certain exclusive aristocratic circles which were
closed to me in spite of my wealth. I made use of you for this purpose.
When you presented me everywhere as your dearest friend, you knew
perfectly well why you did so. I never said one word to you that could
justify you in calling me your friend. But of what use are these
explanations? They are entirely unnecessary between us. I ask now, are
you willing to make the humble--I repeat the word--humble apology which
I require, outside, beneath the awning? Decide quickly. I can give you
no more time."
"If I do so, will you promise me to show no one my note and the check?"
"I will promise you nothing, except that in the case of your refusing
to comply with my demand I will show both publicly."
"But by so doing you will destroy all chance of my ever paying you. You
will lose ten thousand thalers."
"Which you never will pay in any case while you live!" Delmar replied,
with a smile of contempt.
"Which I certainly will pay, and that shortly. I have been betrothed
to-day to Eva Schommer."
"Indeed? I congratulate you. I never had an exalted opinion of the
lady, but I should not have thought she would have chosen exactly such
a husband."
"You see now that I can pay my debt as soon as I am married to the
heiress, but if you ruin me----"
"You will be sent to jail as a forger, and will never refund the money
which I once foolishly lent you and which I considered lost long ago.
True, but that is a matter of entire indifference to me. I require you
to obey me! Make up your mind! Do you hesitate? Well then your fate is
decided!"
Delmar turned towards the door, but Bertram seized his hand, and cried
in a tone of entreaty, "Have pity upon me! Do not ruin me! I will do
what you ask,--only let me make the apology in a less humiliating
form!"
"Not a word shall be changed. I insist upon a humble apology!"
"I will make it, but let me add that my betrothed has requested me to
do so publicly."
Delmar laughed aloud. "A request as modest as it is extraordinary. For
the sake of its oddity I will grant it."
Bertram's face, as he returned beneath the awning, followed by Delmar,
was ashy pale, and there was a strange flitter in his eyes, but his
demeanour was calm and composed. He stepped up to Colonel von Heydeck,
who was awaiting his return with the utmost impatience.
"Colonel von Heydeck," he began in a low voice.
"Louder," said Delmar.
Bertram obeyed; he raised his voice so that it could be heard by most
of those present. "It is my duty as a man of honour, Colonel von
Heydeck, to atone for a wrong committed in my haste this morning, and
this is the more incumbent upon me, as I have been earnestly entreated
by my betrothed, Fraeulein Eva Schommer, to do so."
A murmur was heard among the officers present. "Betrothed to the lovely
Eva Schommer! Impossible! Scandalous! Poor girl!" These and similar
expressions were uttered so loudly that for a moment they interrupted
what Bertram had to say, but when curiosity had got the better of
surprise, he continued: "This morning I grossly insulted your son in
this place; I herewith retract the offensive expressions I then made
use of, and publicly beg his forgiveness."
"Humbly!" Delmar interrupted him.
"And humbly beg your son's pardon," Bertram obediently repeated.
"Disgraceful! Infamous! Shameless! The fellow must leave the service!"
Such exclamations were heard on all sides, no longer muttered in low
tones but spoken aloud in disregard as to whether or not they were
overheard by Bertram. The officers retreated from about their late
comrade as from some plague-stricken wretch whose vicinity was
contagion, and Bertram, with Paul Delmar and the old colonel, was left
standing in the centre of a wide circle.
"Are you entirely satisfied, colonel?" Paul whispered to the old man.
"You were right, the fellow could insult neither my son nor myself,"
the colonel replied, not deigning another glance at the lieutenant.
"Come, my young friend, give me your arm, I need some support, and I
may well look to you for it, for you have just done me a most important
service. I should like to thank you, but not here with these hundred
eyes upon us. Let us go outside and walk a while beneath the lindens."
And leaning on Delmar's arm, the colonel hobbled towards the entrance,
the young officers saluting him respectfully as they made way for him
to pass.
Thus Bertram was left alone, shunned by every officer and stared at by
every civilian present. He felt that his fate was sealed, but he would
nevertheless make one more struggle against it. His last hope was in
Count Waldheim, who was standing at a little distance in conversation
with two other dragoons. Bertram approached him, and the Count did not
retreat, but with a haughty air awaited the address of his former
friend.
This was a good sign. He was not too angry then to be appeased. Bertram
relied upon his smooth words, which had so often imposed upon the
Count's guileless good nature,--he summoned all his impudence to his
aid, and succeeded in assuming an air of entire nonchalance as he said,
turning to Waldheim, "That was a hard duty to fulfil. Come, my dear
Count, let us go to Herr von Herwarth that he may confirm what I know
to be true. The fulfilment of my intention of which you were informed
and of which you approved, has been hastened by the appearance of the
old colonel, for my conscience would never have allowed me to quarrel
with one so aged and so honourable. I should----"
"I beg you, sir, to spare me any further remarks," Waldheim said,
interrupting the flow of Bertram's speech; "I forbid you ever to
address me again. I awaited your approach solely for the purpose of
saying this to you. I should else have followed the example of my
comrades and turned my back upon you with contempt."
"Count Waldheim, you shall answer to me for this. I demand
satisfaction----"
"You have lost all right this day to demand satisfaction of any
gentleman; the only weapon I should use upon you is a horse-whip."
The Count spoke so loud that his words were heard by all the
by-standers. "Bravo!" they exclaimed, while Bertram, trembling with
rage, half drew, his sabre from its sheath. His brother officers,
however, closed in a group around Count Waldheim, as if to shield him
from attack.
Bertram stood alone. He might have had the courage to reply to
Waldheim's mortal insult by a cut with his sabre; but he could not
brave such numbers of antagonists. With an oath, he dashed the sabre
back into its scabbard, cast a glance of deadly hatred about him, and
strode away. Behind him he heard scornful laughter and loud expressions
of contempt, but he did not venture to heed them or to look back.