The mood in which Conte Capriani took his place beside Kilary in the
victoria that was to carry him to the place of meeting, was a very
strange one. Never had he felt such pride of victory; his thoughts
reverted to his first meeting with the beautiful Countess Lodrin at the
beginning of his career, when with his keen scent for all that was
lowest in human beings, he had divined her passionate nature, a nature
held in check with despotic resolution after the great disappointment
of her early life.
With calculating cunning he had plotted and schemed to get her into his
power. But when at last he thought he had quelled and broken her pride,
she suddenly reared her head more haughtily than ever, and thrust him
from her.--He had not believed such audacity possible!
And now the woman whom he had thought to tread beneath his feet stood
at so unattainable a height above him, that his treachery was of no
avail as a weapon against her. How his heart had been consumed by
futile rage! Only the day before yesterday she had dared to send him
word by Zoe Melkweyser that she did not remember him.
"But it is my turn now," he thought, "this duel has forced an
explanation between herself and Oswald,--she has had to humble
herself before her child!" A fiendish exultation thrilled him to his
very finger-tips. "At last they must bow before me," he said to
himself.--"Mother and son, the two haughtiest of the whole haughty
crowd!"
It never occurred to him that this explanation which he had forced so
relentlessly upon the mother and son could have results other than
those which he contemplated. Absolutely content, for the first time in
his life, he leaned back among the cushions slowly puffing forth big
clouds of smoke into the fresh morning air, as the carriage approached
the old monastery of St. Elizabeth.
It was a large building blackened by time, standing quite isolated at
about half a league from Tornow upon fallow land. Formerly a monastery,
afterwards a hospital, and then a poor-house, it was now one of those
melancholy ruins that only await the pickaxe of demolition. The walls
were dirty, the windows black, with half the panes broken and patched
up with paper.--Two grape-vines trailed over the grass where once had
been a garden, and a couple of knotty mulberry-trees grew close to the
ruinous walls.
Leaning against one of these walls stood an ancient black, wooden
crucifix; the nail that had held fast the right hand of The Crucified
had fallen out and the arm hung loose, lending to the rudely-carved
image a strange reality. It looked as if the Saviour in the death
struggle had torn away his bleeding hand from the cross to bless
mankind with it once more.
Beneath the figure of Christ was a tablet with an inscription, the gilt
letters of which, much faded by time, still glistened in the morning
sunlight.
The atmosphere was unusually clear, the skies cloudless. Oswald,
Georges, and old Doctor Swoboda arrived before Capriani; whilst Georges
and Doctor Swoboda walked about the old building discussing various
parts of it to keep themselves cool, Oswald leaned against the doorway
of the old cloister, and gazed silently into the distance. Not a trace
was perceptible of the irritability which Georges had observed on the
previous day. His was the repose of one who sees the goal where the
terrible burden with which destiny has laden him can be cast off.--His
soul was filled with anguish, but was conscious of the remedy at
hand.--Release went hand in hand with duty.
Dear old memories arose upon his mind,--vaguely as if obscured by thick
vapour. His mother's image hovered before him; he clasped his hands
tightly, stood erect, threw back his head and looked upwards as
desperate men always do before final exhaustion. His glance fell upon
the Christ; the tablet at His feet attracted his attention, he
approached it.
"What have you found there?" asked Georges, with forced carelessness.
"I am only trying to decipher the inscription," replied Oswald.
"The inscription?--'God--God--have....'" Georges spelled out.
"'God have mercy upon us all!'" Oswald read, and at that moment the old
iron-barred gate of the monastery garden creaked on its hinges,--Kilary
entered first and Oswald returned his bow with friendly ease. But when
the Conte, following Kilary closely, bowed with a sweet smile Oswald
scarcely touched his hat.
The Conte glanced keenly at him; for an instant his eyes encountered
those of the young man and gazed into their depths, but found nothing
there save immeasurable disgust.
The conditions of the duel called for thirty paces with an advance on
each side of ten paces. The seconds measured off thirty paces and at
the distance of ten paces apart laid two canes down on the grass.
The whole proceeding was to Georges a disgusting farce; he seemed to be
acting as in a dream, without any will of his own. It was impossible
that his cousin Oswald Lodrin should condescend to fight with this
adventurer.
Oswald and the Conte took their places, the seconds gave the signal. On
the instant Oswald shot wide of the Conte. A brief, dreadful pause
ensued; the Conte hesitated. With utter disdain in his eyes, his head
held erect, Oswald advanced; the Conte had never seen him look so
haughty.
The sight of the handsome set face recalled to the adventurer the
manifold humiliations that he had been obliged to endure all his
lifelong at the arrogant hands of 'these people.' All his hatred for
the entire caste blazed up within him,--all power of reflection gone he
blindly discharged his pistol!
Oswald felt something like a hard cold blow on his breast,--a crimson
cloud seemed to rise out of the earth before him, he staggered and
fell.
"Good God!" exclaimed Georges quite beside himself, as he raised the
dying man in his arms and held him there while the old Doctor bent over
him.
Oswald opened his eyes. His mind was somewhat astray,--everything about
him seemed wavering vaguely; then, in the midst of the terrible,
chaotic confusion of every sense that precedes dissolution he made a
mighty effort to grasp and hold a thought that glided indistinctly
through his half-darkened mind. "Georges," he gasped, "what day of the
month is it?"
"The seventh of August."
"My birthday."--Suddenly his mind grew clear once more, and there came
over him the incredible celerity of thought, the wonderful illumination
of vision of the dying, who in a moment of time grasp the memory of an
entire life. As the earth slipped away from him he was able to judge
human weaknesses in the light of eternity.
"Georges!" he began.
"Yes, dear old fellow!" said Georges softly, in a choked voice.
"Tell my mother--and for God's sake do not forget--that for the happy
twenty-six years that are past I thank her, and that I kiss her dear,
dear hands in token of farewell!"
He was silent, he breathed with difficulty,--his lips moved again,
and Georges put his ear down to them that he might understand
him--"Georges,--if I have ever done you wrong,--you or any one else in
my life--without knowing it,--then...."
"Ah Ossi, would to God that I could ever lay down my head as calmly and
proudly as you can," whispered Georges, clasping him closer in his
arms.
The dying man smiled--possessed by a great calm. He knew that what had
been his secret was his own forever.
He tried to raise himself a little, rivetting his eyes upon the
crucifix;--the gilt letters gleamed in the morning light. He lifted his
hand by an effort, to make the sign of the cross,--Georges guided his
hand. A bluish pallor appeared upon his features,--twice a tremor ran
through his limbs, his hands fell clinched by his side--his lips moved
for the last time. "Poor Ella!" he murmured scarcely audibly.
* * *
God have mercy upon us all!