“You will go back there some day, Monsieur Maurice,” I said hesitatingly,
“when--when--”
“When I am free, little Gretchen? Ah! who can tell? Besides the old place
is no longer mine. They have taken it from me, and given it to a stranger.”
“Taken it from you, Monsieur Maurice!” I exclaimed indignantly.
“Ay; but--who knows? We see strange changes. Where a king reigns to-day, an
emperor, or a mob, may rule to-morrow.”
He spoke more to himself than to me, but I had some dim understanding,
nevertheless, of what he meant.
He had by this time drawn the cliff, and the strip of sand, and the waste
of sea beyond; and now he was blotting in some boats and figures--figures
of men wading through the surf and dragging the boats in shore; and other
figures making for the steps. Last of all, close under the cliff, in
advance of all the rest, he drew a tiny man standing alone--a tiny man
scarce an eighth of an inch in height, struck out with three or four
touches of the pen, and yet so full of character that one knew at a glance
he was the leader of the others. I saw the outstretched arm in act of
command--I recognised the well-known cocked hat--the general outline of a
figure already familiar to me in a hundred prints, and I exclaimed, almost
involuntarily:--
“Bonaparte!”
Monsieur Maurice started; shot a quick, half apprehensive glance at me;
crumpled the drawing up in his hand, and flung it into the fire.
“Oh, Monsieur Maurice!” I cried, “what have you done?”
“It was a mere scrawl,” he said impatiently.
“No, no--it was beautiful. I would have given anything for it!”
Monsieur Maurice laughed, and patted me on the cheek.
“Nonsense, petite, nonsense!” he said. “It was only fit for the fire. I
will make you a better drawing, if you remind me of it, to-morrow.”
When I told this to my father--and I used to prattle to him a good deal
about Monsieur Maurice at supper, in those days--he tugged at his
moustache, and shook his head, and looked very grave indeed.
“The South of France!” he muttered, “the South of France! _Sacré coeur
d'une bombe_! Why, the usurper, when he came from Elba, landed on that
coast somewhere near Cannes!”
“And went to Monsieur Maurice's house, father!” I cried, “and that is why
the King of France has taken Monsieur Maurice's house away from him, and
given it to a stranger! I am sure that's it! I see it all now!”
But my father only shook his head again, and looked still more grave.
“No, no, no,” he said, “neither all--nor half--nor a quarter! There's more
behind. I don't understand it--I don't understand it. Thunder and Mars! Why
don't we hand him over to the French Government? That's what puzzles me.”
6
The severity of the Winter had, I think, in some degree abated, and the
snowdrops were already above ground, when again a mounted orderly rode in
from Cologne, bringing another official letter for the Governor of Brühl.
Now my father's duties as Governor of Brühl were very light--so light that
he had not found it necessary to set apart any special room, or bureau,
for the transaction of such business as might be connected therewith.
When, therefore, letters had to be written or accounts made up, he wrote
those letters and made up those accounts at a certain large writing-table,
fitted with drawers, pigeon-holes, and a shelf for account-books, that
stood in a corner of our sitting-room. Here also, if any persons had to be
received, he received them. To this day, whenever I go back in imagination
to those bygone times, I seem to see my father sitting at that
writing-table nibbling the end of his pen, and one of the sergeants off
guard perched on the edge of a chair close against the door, with his hat
on his knees, waiting for orders.
There being, as I have said, no especial room set apart for business
purposes, the orderly was shown straight to our own room, and there
delivered his despatch. It was about a quarter past one. We had dined, and
my father had just brought out his pipe. The door leading into our little
dining-room was, indeed, standing wide open, and the dishes were still
upon the table.
My father took the despatch, turned it over, broke the seals one by one
(there were five of them, as before), and read it slowly through. As he
read, a dark cloud seemed to settle on his brow.
Then he looked up frowning--seemed about to speak--checked himself--and
read the despatch over again.
“From whose hands did you receive this?” he said abruptly.
“From General Berndorf, Excellency,” stammered the orderly, carrying his
hand to his cap.
“Is his Excellency the Baron von Bulow at Cologne?”
“I have not heard so, Excellency.”
“Then this despatch came direct from Berlin, and has been forwarded from
Cologne?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“How did it come from Berlin? By mail, or by special messenger?”
“By special messenger, Excellency.”
Now General Berndorf was the officer in command of the garrison at Cologne,
and the Baron von Bulow, as I well knew, was His Majesty's Minister of War
at Berlin.
Having received these answers, my father stood silent, as if revolving some
difficult matter in his thoughts. Then, his mind being made up, he turned
again to the orderly and said:--
“Dine--feed your horse--and come back in an hour for the answer.”
Thankful to be dismissed, the man saluted and vanished. My father had a
rapid, stern way of speaking to subordinates, that had in general the
effect of making them glad to get out of his presence as quickly as
possible.
Then he read the despatch for the third time; turned to his writing-table;
dropped into his chair; and prepared to write.
But the task, apparently, was not easy. Watching him from the fireside
corner where I was sitting on a low stool with an open story-book upon my
lap, I saw him begin and tear up three separate attempts. The fourth,
however, seemed to be more successful. Once written, he read it over,
copied it carefully, called to me for a light, sealed his letter, and
addressed it to “His Excellency the Baron von Bulow.”
This done, he enclosed it under cover to “General Berndorf, Cologne”; and
had just sealed the outer cover when the orderly came back. My father gave
it to him with scarcely a word, and two minutes after, we heard him
clattering out of the courtyard at a hand-gallop.
Then my father came back to his chair by the fireside, lit his pipe, and
sat thinking silently. I looked up in his face, but felt, somehow, that I
must not speak to him; for the cloud was still there, and his thoughts
were far away. Presently his pipe went out; but he held it still,
unconscious and absorbed. In all the months we had been living at Brühl I
had never seen him look so troubled.
So he sat, and so he looked for a long time--for perhaps the greater part
of an hour--during which I could think of nothing but the despatch, and
Monsieur Maurice, and the Minister of War; for that it all had to do with
Monsieur Maurice I never doubted for an instant.
By just such another despatch, sealed and sent in precisely the same way,
and from the same person, his coming hither had been heralded. How, then,
should not this one concern him? And in what way would he be affected by
it? Seeing that dark look in my father's face, I knew not what to think or
what to fear.
At length, after what had seemed to me an interval of interminable silence,
the time-piece in the corner struck half-past three--the hour at which
Monsieur Maurice was accustomed to give me the daily French lesson; so I
got up quietly and stole towards the door, knowing that I was expected
upstairs.
“Where are you going, Gretchen?” said my father, sharply.
It was the first time he had opened his lips since the orderly had
clattered out of the courtyard.
“I am going up to Monsieur Maurice,” I replied.
My father shook his head.
“Not to-day, my child,” he said, “not to-day. I have business with Monsieur
Maurice this afternoon. Stay here till I come back.”
And with this he got up, took his hat and went quickly out of the room.
So I waited and waited--as it seemed to me for hours. The waning day-light
faded and became dusk; the dusk thickened into dark; the fire burned red
and dull; and still I crouched there in the chimney-corner. I had no heart
to read, work, or fan the logs into a blaze. I just watched the clock, and
waited. When the room became so dark that I could see the hands no longer,
I counted the strokes of the pendulum, and told the quarters off upon my
fingers.
When at length my father came back, it was past five o'clock, and dark as
midnight.
“Quick, quick, little Gretchen,” he said, pulling off his hat and gloves,
and unbuckling his sword. “A glass of kirsch, and more logs on the fire! I
am cold through and through, and wet into the bargain.”
“But--but, father, have you not been with Monsieur Maurice?” I said,
anxiously.
“Yes, of course; but that was an hour ago, and more. I have been over to
Kierberg since then, in the rain.”
He had left Monsieur Maurice an hour ago--a whole, wretched, dismal hour,
during which I might have been so happy!
“You told me to stay here till you came back,” I said, scarce able to keep
down the tears that started to my eyes.
“Well, my little Mädchen?”
“And--and I might have gone up to Monsieur Maurice, after all?”
My father looked at me gravely--poured out a second glass of kirsch--drew
his chair to the front of the fire, and said:--
“I don't know about that, Gretchen.”
I had felt all along that there was something wrong, and now I was certain
of it.
“What do you mean, father?” I said, my heart beating so that I could
scarcely speak. “What is the matter?”
“May the devil make broth of my bones, if I know!” said my father, tugging
savagely at his moustache.
“But there is something!”
He nodded, grimly.
“Monsieur Maurice, it seems, is not to have so much liberty,” he said,
after a moment. “He is not to walk in the grounds oftener than twice a
week; and then only with a soldier at his heels. And he is not to go beyond
half a mile from the Château in any direction. And he is to hold no
communication whatever with any person, or persons, either in-doors or
out-of-doors, except such as are in direct charge of his rooms or his
person. And--and heaven knows what other confounded regulations besides! I
wish the Baron von Bulow had been in Spitzbergen before he put it into the
King's head to send him here at all!”
“But--but he is not to be locked up?” I faltered, almost in a whisper.
“Well, no--not exactly that; but I am to post a sentry in the corridor,
outside his door.”
“Then the King is afraid that Monsieur Maurice will run away!”
“I don't know--I suppose so,” groaned my father.