TWO MEN.
The Waldgrave's return to his old self, and to the frankness and
gaiety that, when we first knew him at Heritzburg, had surrounded him
with a halo of youth, was perhaps the most noteworthy event of all
within my experience. For the return proved permanent, the
transformation was perfect. The moodiness, the crookedness, the crafty
humours that for weeks had darkened and distorted the man's nature--so
that another and a worse man seemed to look out of his eyes and speak
with his mouth--were gone, leaving no cloud or remembrance. He had
been mad; he was now as sane as the best. Only one peculiarity
remained--and for a few days a little pallor and weakness--of all the
things that had befallen him between his first wound and his second,
he could remember nothing, not a jot or tittle; nor could any amount
of allusion or questioning bring these things back to him. After many
attempts we desisted; but there were always some who, from this date,
regarded him with a certain degree of awe--as a man who had been for a
time in the flesh, and yet not of it.
With sanity returned also all the wholesome ambitions and desires that
had formerly moved the man; and amongst these his passion for my lady.
He lay at our house that night, and spent the next two days there,
recovering his strength; and I had more than one opportunity of
marking the assiduity with which he followed all the Countess's
movements with his eyes, the change which his voice underwent when he
spoke to her, and his manner when he came into her presence. In a
word, he seemed to take up his love where he had dropped it--at the
point it had reached when he rode down into the green valley and
secured his rival's victory at so great a cost; at the point at which
Tzerclas' admiration and my lady's rebuff had at once strengthened and
purified it.
Now Tzerclas was gone from the field--magically, as it seemed
to the Waldgrave. And, magically also--for he knew nothing of its
flight--time had passed; days and weeks running into months--a
sufficiency of time, he hoped, to remove unfavourable impressions from
her mind, to obliterate the memory of that unhappy banquet, and
replace him on the pinnacle he had occupied at Heritzburg.
But he soon found that, though Tzerclas was gone and the field seemed
open, all was not to be had for the asking. My lady was kind; she had
a smile for him, and pleasant words, and a ready ear. But before he
had been in the house twenty-four hours, he came and confided to me
that something was wrong. The Countess was changed; was pettish as
he had never seen her before; absent and thoughtful, traits equally
new; restless--and placid dignity had been one of her chief
characteristics.
'What is it, Martin?' he said, knitting his brows and striding to and
fro in frank perplexity. 'It cannot be that, after all that has
passed, she is fretting for that villain Tzerclas?'
'After risking her life to escape from him?' I answered dryly. 'No, I
think not, my lord.'
'If I ever set eyes on him again I will end him!' the Waldgrave cried,
still clinging, I think, to his idea, and exasperated by it. He strode
up and down a time or two, and did not grow cooler. 'If it is not
that, what is it?' he said at last.
'There are not many light hearts in Nuremberg,' I suggested. 'And of
those, few are women's. There must be an end of this soon.'
'You think it is that?' he said.
'Why not?' I answered. 'I am told that the horses are dying by
hundreds in the camp. The men will die next. In the end the King will
have to march away, or see his army perish piecemeal. In either case
the city will pay for all. Wallenstein will swoop down on it, and make
of it another and greater Magdeburg. That is a poor prospect for the
weak and helpless.'
'It is those rascally Croats!' the Waldgrave groaned. 'They cover the
country like flies--are here and there and nowhere all in the same
minute, and burn and harry and leave us nothing. We have no troops of
that kind.'
'There was plundering in the Wert suburb last night,' I said. 'The
King blames the Germans.'
'Soldiers are bad to starve,' the Waldgrave answered.
'Yes; they will see the townsfolk suffer first,' I rejoined, with a
touch of bitterness. 'But look whichever way you please, it is a
gloomy outlook, my lord, and I do not wonder that my lady is
down-hearted.'
He nodded, but presently he said something that showed that he was not
satisfied. 'The Countess used to be of a bolder spirit,' he muttered.
'I don't understand it.'
I did not know how to answer him, and fortunately, at that moment,
Marie came down to say that my lady proposed to visit Count
Leuchtenstein, and that I was to go to her. The Waldgrave heard, and
raced up before me, crying out that he would go too. I followed. When
I reached the parlour I found them confronting one another, my lady
standing in the oriel with her back to the street.
'But would it not be more seemly?' the Waldgrave was saying as I
entered. 'As your cousin, and----'
'I would rather go alone,' the Countess replied curtly.
'To the camp?' he exclaimed. 'He is not in his city quarters.'
'Yes, to the camp,' my lady answered, with, a spark of anger in her
eyes.
On that he stood, fidgety and discomfited, and the Countess gave me
her orders. But he could not believe that she did not need him, and
the moment she was silent, he began again.
'You do not want me; but you do not object to my company, I suppose?'
he said airily. 'I have to thank the Count, cousin, and I must go
to-day or to-morrow. There is no time like the present, and if you are
going now----'
'I should prefer to go alone,' my lady said stiffly.
His face fell; he stood looking foolish. 'Oh, I did not know,' he
stammered at last; 'I thought----'
'What?' the Countess said.
'That you liked me well enough--to--to be glad of my company,' he
answered, half offended, half in deprecation.
'I liked you well enough to abase myself for you!' my lady retorted
cruelly. And I dare say that she said more, but I did not hear it. I
had to go down and prepare for her visit.
When I next saw him, he was much subdued. He seemed to be turning
something over in his mind, and by-and-by he asked me a question about
Count Leuchtenstein. I saw which way his thoughts were tending, or
fancied that I did; but it was not my business to interfere one way or
the other, and I answered him and made no comment. The horses were at
the door then, and in a moment my lady came down, looking pale and
depressed. The Waldgrave went humbly to her, and put her into her
saddle, touching her foot as if it had been glass; and I mounted
Marie, who was to attend her. I expected that my lady--who had a very
tender heart under her queenly manner--would say something to him
before we started; but she seemed to be quite taken up with her
thoughts, and to be barely conscious, if conscious at all, of his
presence. She said 'Thank you,' but it was mechanically. And the next
moment we were moving, Ernst making up the escort.
My eyes soon furnished me with other matter for thought than the
Waldgrave. Throughout the city the summer drought had dried up the
foliage of the trees; and the grass, where it had not been plucked by
the poor and boiled for food, had been eaten to the roots by starving
cattle. The whole city under the blaze of sunshine wore an arid,
dusty, parched appearance, and seemed to reflect on its face the look
of dreary endurance which was worn by too many of the countenances we
observed in the streets. Pain creeps by instinct to some dark and
solitary place; but here was a whole city in pain, gasping and
suffering under the pitiless sunshine; and the contrast between the
blue sky above and the scene below added indescribably to the gloom
and dreariness of the latter. I know that I got a horror of sunshine
there that lasted for many a month after.
Either twenty-four hours had aggravated the pinch of famine, which was
possible, or I had a more open mind to perceive it. I marked more
hollow cheeks than ever, more hungry eyes, more faces with the
glare of brutes. And in the bearing of the crowd that filled the
streets--though no business was done, no trade carried on--I thought
that I saw a change. Wherever it was thickest, I noticed that men
walked in one of two ways, either hurrying along feverishly and in
haste, as if time were of the utmost value, or moving listlessly, with
dragging feet and lacklustre eyes, as if nothing had any longer power
to stir them. I even noticed that the same men went in both ways
within the space of a minute, passing in a second and apparently
without intention from feverish activity to the moodiness of despair.
And no wonder. Not only famine, but pestilence had tightened its grasp
on the city; and from this the rich had as much to fear as the poor.
As we drew near the walls the smell of carrion, which had hitherto but
spoiled the air, filled the nostrils and sickened the whole man. In
some places scores of horses lay unburied, while it was whispered that
in obscure corners death had so far outstripped the grave-diggers that
corpses lay in the houses and the living slept with the dead. There
was fighting in front of the bakers' shops in more than one place--my
lady had to throw money before we could pass; in the kennels women
screamed and fought for offal; from the open doors of churches prayers
and wailing poured forth; at the gates, where gibbets, laden with
corpses, rose for a warning, multitudes stood waiting and listening
for news. And on all, dead and living, the sun shone hotly, steadily,
ruthlessly, so that men asked with one voice, 'How long? How long?'
In the camp, which had just received huge reinforcements of men and
horses, we found order and discipline at least. Rows of kettles and
piles of arms proclaimed it, and lines of pennons that stretched
almost as far as the eye could reach. But here, too, were knitted
brows, and gloomy looks, and loud murmurings, that grew and swelled as
we passed. Count Leuchtenstein's quarters were on the border of the
Swedish camp, near the Finland regiments, and not far from the King's.
A knot of officers, who stood talking in front of them and knew my
lady, came to place themselves at her service. But the offer proved to
be abortive, for the first thing she learned was that the Count was
absent. He had gone at dawn in the direction of Altdorf to cover the
entrance of a convoy.
I felt that she was grievously disappointed, for whether she loved him
or not, I could understand the humiliation under which she smarted,
and would smart until she had set herself right with him. But she
veiled her chagrin admirably, and, lightly refusing the offer of
refreshment, turned her horse's head at once, so that in a twinkling
we were on our road home again.
By the way, I saw only what I had seen before. But the Countess, whose
figure began to droop, saw, I think, with other eyes than those
through which she had looked on the outward journey. Her thoughts no
longer occupied, she saw in their fulness the ravages which famine and
plague were making in the town, once so prosperous. When she reached
her lodgings her first act was to send money, of which we had no great
store, to the magistrates, that a free meal in addition to the
starvation rations might be given to the poor; and her next, to
declare that henceforth she would keep the house.
Accordingly, instead of going again to the Count's, she sent me next
day with a letter. I found the camp in an uproar, which was fast
spreading to the city. A rumour had just got wind that the King was
about to break up his camp and give battle to the enemy at all
hazards; and so many were riding and running into the city with the
news that I could scarcely make head against the current.
Arriving at last, however, I was fortunate enough to find the Count in
his quarters and alone. My lady had charged me--with a blushing cheek
but stern eyes--to deliver the letter with my own hands, and I
dismounted. I thought that I had nothing to do but deliver it; I
foresaw no trouble. But at the last moment, as a trooper led me
through the antechamber, who should appear at my side but the
Waldgrave!
'You did not expect to see me?' he said, nodding grimly.
'No, my lord,' I answered.
'So I thought,' he rejoined. 'But before you give the Count that
letter, I have a word to say to him.'
I looked at him in astonishment. What had the letter to do with him?
My first idea was that he had been drinking, for his colour was high
and his eye bright. But a second glance showed that he was sober,
though excited. And while I hesitated the trooper held up the curtain,
and perforce I marched in.
Count Leuchtenstein, wearing his plain buff suit, sat writing at a
table. His corselet, steel cap, and gauntlets lay beside him, and
seemed to show that he had just come in from the field. He looked up
and nodded to me; I had been announced before. Then he saw the
Waldgrave and rose; reluctantly, I fancied. I thought, too, that a
shade of gloom fell on his face; but as the table was laden with
papers and despatches and maps and lists, and the sight reminded me
that he bore on his shoulders all the affairs of Hesse, and the
responsibility for the boldest course taken by any German prince in
these troubles, I reflected that this might arise from a hundred
causes.
He greeted the Waldgrave civilly nevertheless; then he turned to me.
'You have a letter for me, have you not, my friend?' he said.
'Yes, my lord,' I answered.
'But,' the Waldgrave interposed, 'before you read it, I have a word to
say, by your leave, Count Leuchtenstein.'
I think I never saw a man more astonished than the Count. 'To me?' he
said.
'By your leave, yes.'
'In regard to--this letter?'
'Yes.'
'But what do you know about this letter?'
'Too much, I am afraid,' the Waldgrave answered; and I am bound to say
that, putting aside the extraordinary character of his interference,
he bore himself well. I could detect nothing of wildness or delusion
in his manner. His face glowed, and he threw back his head with a hint
of defiance; but he seemed sane. 'Too much,' he continued rapidly,
before the Count could stop him; 'and, before the matter goes farther,
I will have my say.'
The Count stared at him. 'By what right?' he said at last.
'As the Countess Rotha's nearest kinsman,' the Waldgrave answered.
'Indeed?' I could see that the Count was hard put to it to keep his
temper; that the old lion in him was stirring, and would soon have
way. But for the moment he controlled himself. 'Say on,' he cried.
'I will, in a few words,' the Waldgrave answered. 'And what I have to
say amounts to this: I have become aware--no matter how--of the
bargain you have made, Count Leuchtenstein, and I will not have it.'
'The bargain!' the Count ejaculated; 'you will not have it!'
'The bargain; and I will not have it!' the Waldgrave rejoined.
Count Leuchtenstein drew a deep breath, and stared at him like a man
demented. 'I think that you must be mad,' he said at last. 'If not,
tell me what you mean.'
'What I say,' the Waldgrave answered stubbornly. 'I forbid the bargain
to which I have no doubt that that letter relates.'
'In Heaven's name, what bargain?' the Count cried.
'You think that I do not know,' the Waldgrave replied, with a touch of
bitterness; 'it did not require a Solomon to read the riddle. I found
my cousin distrait, absent, moody, sad, preoccupied, unlike herself.
She had moved heaven and earth, I was told, to save me; in the last
resort, had come to you, and you saved me. Yet when she saw me safe,
she met me as much in sorrow as in joy. The mere mention of your name
clouded her face; and she must see you, and she must write to you, and
all in a fever. I say, it does not require a Solomon to read this
riddle, Count Leuchtenstein.'
'You think?' said the Count, bluntly. 'I do not yet know what you
think.'
'I think that she sold herself to you to win my pardon,' the Waldgrave
answered.
For a moment I did not know how Count Leuchtenstein would take it. He
stood gazing at the Waldgrave, his hand on a chair, his face purple,
his eyes starting. At length, to my relief and the Waldgrave's utter
dismay and shame, he sank into the chair and broke into a hoarse shout
of laughter--laughter that was not all merriment, but rolled, in its
depths something stern and sardonic.
The Waldgrave changed colour, glared and fumed; but the Count was
pitiless, and laughed on. At last: 'Thanks, Waldgrave, thanks,' he
said. 'I am glad I let you go on to the end. But pardon me if I say
that you seem to do the Lady Rotha something less than justice, and
yourself something more.'
'How?' the Waldgrave stammered. He was quite out of countenance.
'By flattering yourself that she could rate you so highly,' Count
Leuchtenstein retorted, 'or fall herself so low. Nay, do not threaten
me,' he continued with grim severity. 'It was not I who brought her
name into question. I never dreamed of, never heard of, never
conceived such a bargain as you have described; nor, I may add, ever
thought of the Lady Rotha except with reverence and chivalrous regard.
Have I said enough?' he continued, rising, and speaking with growing
indignation, with eyes that seemed to search the culprit; 'or must I
say too, Waldgrave, that I do not traffic in men's lives, nor buy
women's favours, nor sell pardons? That such power as God and my
master have given me I use to their honour and not for my own
pleasure? And, finally, that this, of which you accuse me, I would not
do, though to do it were to prolong my race through a dozen centuries?
For shame, boy, for shame!' he continued more calmly. 'If my mind has
gone the way you trace it, I call it back to-day. I have done with
love; I am too old for aught but duty, if love can lead even a young
man's mind so far astray.'
The Waldgrave shivered; but the position was beyond words, and he
essayed none. With a slight movement of his hand, as if he would have
shielded himself, or deprecated the other's wrath, he turned towards
the door. I saw his face for an instant; it was pale, despairing--and
with reason. He had exposed my lady. He had exposed himself. He had
invited such a chastisement as must for ever bring the blood to his
cheeks. And his cousin: what would she say? He had lost her. She would
never forgive him--never! He groped blindly for the opening in the
curtain.
His hand was on it--and I think that, for all his manhood, the tears
were very near his eyes--when the other called after him in an altered
tone.
'Stay!' Count Leuchtenstein said. 'We will not part thus. I can see
that you are sorry. Do not be so hasty another time, and do not be too
quick to think evil. For the rest, our friend here will be silent, and
I will be silent.'
The Waldgrave gazed at him, his lips quivering, his eyes full. At
last: 'You will not tell--the Countess Rotha?' he said almost in a
whisper.
The Count looked down at his table, and pettishly pushed some
papers together. For an instant he did not answer. Then he said
gruffly,--'No. Why should she know? If she chooses you, well and good;
if not, why trouble her with tales?'
'Then!' the Waldgrave cried with a sob in his voice, 'you are a better
man than I am!'
The Count shrugged his shoulders rather sadly. 'No,' he said, 'only an
older one.'