THE CASTLE OF HOHENSTEIN.
Among the subjects which Aunt Jane, for my own sake, encouraged me to
talk about at this time, was that of the character and adventures of my
remarkable relation, Countess Rossi, and of her beautiful cousin Dorina,
the first betrothed of Count Rossi, who had disappeared the night before
her marriage.
In order to make the sequel of my story intelligible, I will here relate
what I told Aunt Jane, at that time, in various conversations.
Not far from the celebrated Caves of Adelberg may still be seen one of
those ancient castles that remind the traveller of days and customs long
passed away. Hohenstein is, or was some twenty years ago, inhabited by
the then representative of the ancient family whose name it bears. The
Graf von Hohenstein had an only child, Dorina, a young girl who, at the
time I was taken by my guardian to Paris, had lately come from the
convent at Udine, where she had been educated. Her mother was a
Venetian, of the noble family of Rossi, and died a year or two before
Dorina had been betrothed to her second cousin, Count Rossi. The young
couple were, at the express wish of Dorina’s mother, betrothed a year
before she left the convent; but as soon as she attained her seventeenth
year, the marriage was to take place at Hohenstein, with great
splendour.
While I was at my convent in Paris, I heard all about the projected
fêtes from my mother, who, as a near relation of Count Rossi, had been
asked to stay at Hohenstein for a couple of months, to be present at the
marriage.
The Count Hohenstein’s mother was English, the Countess Bianca (the Lady
Blanche Roland, of Castle Hall, the only daughter, and, after her
brother’s death, sole heir of the Earl of Roland). Dorina’s great friend
and constant companion was Cunigunda, the only child of the Count’s
younger brother, consequently her first cousin, and, after Dorina, next
heiress to the possessions of the Hohenstein family. She was more than a
year older than Dorina, but her parents had arranged that she should
remain in the convent until Dorina’s education should be finished.
The brilliant and beautiful Cunigunda was by no means so fond of the
convent, or its inmates, as her more gentle and loving cousin, and the
extra year of bondage, as she called it, annoyed her so much that she
gave vent to her spleen by many practical jokes, to the scandal of the
good nuns, and dismay of her confessor. Few women liked Cunigunda except
Dorina, who always endeavoured to screen her wild and mischievous cousin
from disgrace. Dorina had inherited her mother’s delicate constitution,
and although her form and features were lovely, yet her paleness formed
a contrast to her more brilliant cousin.
My mother told me that Cunigunda’s greatest amusement--in fact,
passion--seemed to be to make conquests; and she more than suspected
that the object of her ambition was to captivate Count Rossi before the
ceremony should take place--to make him give up the heiress, and propose
to herself.
From the first day of my mother’s arrival at Hohenstein she began to
suspect the game that the dazzling creature was playing, but
discarded--at first--the idea as something too dreadful; for Count Rossi
was evidently deeply attached to his gentle _fiancée_, and her changing
colour--the joy that seemed to tremble in her eyes whenever he
addressed her--gave full evidence of her affection for him.
The chase in the morning was generally succeeded by dancing in the
evening; and these dances ended with a polonaise, in which guests of all
ages joined, and paraded the long suites of rooms, up and down stairs,
and into the old gallery, which extended all over the upper story.
Sometimes these were headed by the young _fiancés_, but more often by
Cunigunda and some grandee; and when this was the case, she was sure to
lead the procession into all kinds of out-of-the-way and unexpected
places.
One night she led them down a remote turret stairs, into a place which
had formerly been a prison under the Castle, which she had secretly
contrived to make the good seneschal illuminate with brilliant-coloured
lamps. Then, to the surprise of even the Count himself, who had
forgotten the existence of this entrance into the caves, Cunigunda
tapped with a theatrically mysterious air at a small door at the further
end, and beckoning to those behind, she bade them follow her into what
she laughingly called an enchanted palace. It was at once opened, but
the doorway was so small and low that only one person could enter by
stooping.
An exclamation of wonder and delight was heard from the numerous guests
who followed Cunigunda and her partner. It really looked like a scene of
enchantment, for a portion of the celebrated Adelsberg caves, with
their brilliant stalactites, was disclosed to the view of the guests,
illumined with many torches, held up by people at intervals, who had
been stationed there.
The coolness too of the place on that hot Summer night was delicious,
and the Count von Hohenstein was so pleased that he determined to give a
regular ball to all the neighbourhood in the caves, and said he would
light them with coloured lamps, and put down a temporary floor to dance
upon.