Klette was invited after all, or rather invited herself. At the fair in
Marienbad she met Mimi Dey, and upon the latter remarking carelessly:
"How are you, Caroline; when are we to see you in Iwanow?" assured her
generously, "I am at your service as soon as you send the horses for
me. I have been intending to spend a few days with you."
And she stays a few days; the first of these, the eventful Wednesday,
has already dawned, is in fact nearly over.
Klette and the Countess are chatting in the drawing-room. The three
gentlemen are firing at sparrows in the park, quite a bloodless
occupation, which the sparrows seem to consider a good joke, and they
laugh at the shooting with their ironical black eyes. They flutter
about like will-o'-the-wisps. In vain does Pistasch, who seems
particularly bent upon this sport, approach softly the trees where they
crouch--krrm--and they are gone.
For probably the tenth time Pistasch has cried, "The infamous sparrows
are cleverer than I," has at last fixed his eye upon a comfortable old
grandfather sparrow, who sleepily philosophizes on the thick branch of
a nut-tree, but before he has aimed he hears from the open windows of
the drawing-room loud laughter, the gay ripple of the Countess, and the
deep, rough ha! ha! ha! of Klette.
"How amused the ladies seem to be," he says, turning to his companions,
forgetting the sparrow patriarch.
"I do not understand how any one can laugh at that Cantharis," grumbles
Scirocco.
"Oh, she is surely relating something piquant about us," says Pistasch.
"It is incredible how greatly interested the ladies are in our doings,
that is to say, in our evil doings."
Now the shadows have become much longer. Klette has withdrawn to don a
wonderful cap of yellow lace and red ribbons, and the men have returned
from their bloodless hunt, to exchange their gay shirts and light
summer suits for solemn black and dazzling white.
"Rudi," cries the Countess, as she hears a light and yet somewhat
dragging step--Scirocco limps a little--passing her dressing-room door.
"Have you any commission, Mimi?" asks Scirocco, with his good-natured
obligingness, as he enters the room. The Countess has dismissed her
maid, is already in dinner toilet, suppressed laughter sparkles in her
bright brown eyes, the corners of her mouth twitch merrily. "No!" she
replies to his question. "What commission should I have for you!--Ah!
You came from the greenhouse?" pointing to a couple of flowers in his
hand.
"Yes. I wished to give the gardener some directions in regard to the
flowers for your guests. I remember that Elsa cannot bear gardenias,
and Linda--hm--the Lanzberg raves over stephanotis."
"You really might have omitted the bouquets today," says Mimi, vexedly.
"My greenhouses without this--thanks to the fair and those stupid
theatricals--are pretty well stripped."
"Elsa has never dined here without finding her favorite flowers beside
her plate," remarked Scirocco, calmly. "I can neither pass over Linda,
nor will I punish Elsa for the misfortune of having a Miss Harfink for
sister-in-law. Why are you laughing so, Mimi, what seems so amusing to
you?"
"My own simplicity," cries the Countess. "I was so very stupid."
"Mimi, I do not understand you in the least," says he in astonishment.
"Oh, I took your protection of this pretty Lanzberg for unselfish
philanthropy!" The Countess interrupts herself to laugh.
"Unselfish philanthropy! Say rather ordinary justice," cries he,
becoming somewhat violent. "What are you thinking of? What are you
driving at?"
"Your discretion is admirable! You understand no hints."
"Ah, indeed!" cried Scirocco, pale with rage. "Ah, indeed! and the
Cantharis told you that--that was what you were laughing over so
immoderately?"
"But Rudi, never mind. I do not take it amiss in you," cries the
Countess good-naturedly, restraining her levity.
"But I take it amiss in myself to have given rise by my thoughtless
inconsiderateness to such infamous inventions!" cried Scirocco, "for,
once for all, Mimi, Mrs. Lanzberg is horribly calumniated by such."
"There are cases where perjury is permissible," says the Countess,
indifferently. "Do not trouble yourself, I will never speak of the
matter."
Then Scirocco steps close up to his sister. "Mimi!" cries he, hoarsely,
"do you know that I am wounded, seriously wounded by your suspicion?
Pray consider the meanness which you ascribe to me! I have worked for
Felix's rehabilitation so as to be able to carry on a convenient love
affair with his wife, on the risk that the world, bad as it is,
discredited as he is, should say that he voluntarily paid this price
for my assistance. His wife was indifferent to me, but even if she had
charmed me I would have avoided her like the plague rather than throw
another shadow on Felix's compromised existence. Poor Felix! And I
imagined that I had been of some use to him."
Impossible not to believe in his honest excitement. "Pardon, Rudi,"
whispers the Countess, "I had not thought."
"Never mind that, Mimi," he murmured, "besides it is better that I know
what people say. I can at least act accordingly--to-day. This venomous
serpent will surely watch my every glance. However, I must hurry--_a
tantot_, Mimi!"
With that he rushed out, had only just time to change his clothes when
he heard a carriage approach.
"Poor Felix!" he murmured thoughtfully and sadly, "I can do nothing
more for you; they have tied my hands."
Thus the last shadow of pleasure which Linda might have had at the
dinner has vanished.
The Lanzbergs arrived a few minutes before the Garzins. Scirocco
received them at the foot of the terrace, offered Linda his arm, with
somewhat formal politeness, and escorted her to his sister in the
drawing-room, not in the cosey, brown wainscoted one, but in a
ceremonious chamber hung with Gobelins. The Countess rose at her
entrance and took two steps to meet her, then introduced her to those
present with her usual absent-mindedness, naturally to Rhoeden also, at
which Linda began to laugh; but as no one joined in her merriment, her
pretty, attractive face suited itself to the universal gravity.
Poor Linda, she so petted, so spoiled, to-day sees not a welcoming
face, even among the men.
The Countess exchanges polite commonplaces with her, while she
addresses remarks to Klette in between. The chair near the sofa on
which Linda sits remains empty. Pistasch, whose humorous talents are
to-day wholly imperceptible, presents the appearance of a distinguished
statue, and exchanges a few words with Eugene, while Scirocco with
unnatural liveliness has entered into a conversation with Felix.
At last the Garzins appear--every one thaws. The Countess does not
walk, no, she runs to meet Elsa, kisses her on both cheeks, scolds
Garzin for permitting his wife to look so pale, accidentally steps on
Linda's train, turns round and says, "Ah, pardon me, Baroness!" a
perfectly polite little phrase which makes Linda feel as if cold water
had been thrown over her.
The dinner is announced. Scirocco takes Linda in with the same strange
formality which she perceives in him to-day for the first time. At the
table a charming surprise does indeed await her--a bouquet of
stephanotis and gardenias.
"Oh, Scirocco!" cries she, perhaps a very little too loudly, "that is
too lovely! It reminds me of Rome," she adds softly.
She is already so nervous that she would like to burst into tears at
the pretty attention. Her eyes sparkle, and a fleeting blush crimsons
her cheeks. Scirocco is sorry for her. "I am glad that you appreciate
my good memory," says he, bending slightly towards her. Then he notices
how suddenly no less than three pairs of eyes watch him closely, those
of Klette, Pistasch, and Rhoeden; he feels that Linda's excited manner
is most suited to strengthen this distrustful trio in their suspicion,
and immediately turns to Elsa.
"I could not conjure up any white elder, unfortunately, Snowdrop," says
he, shaking his handsome head vexedly.
"Even with the assistance of all the seasons, you could hardly have
found anything more beautiful than these white roses," she replies.
She sits at Scirocco's left.
Linda cannot eat, and finds no opportunity to speak, and relate the gay
little stories which are her specialty. Pistasch, who sits at her
right, contents himself by from time to time dutifully making some
remark to her concerning the weather, the country, and such perfectly
neutral subjects, excluding all intimate conversation, and Scirocco,
her old friend, on whose homage she had relied so surely, to-day has
nothing but etiquette for her. She listens to his conversation with
Elsa. Elsa and he were playmates together. She calls him by his given
name, he calls her Snowdrop, which pretty nick-name he had discovered
for her years before. Both laugh lightly over old reminiscences which
they share, and ask each other about old, half-forgotten friends.
Pleasant confidence on her part, smiling courtesy on his, marks their
manner to each other.
Linda feels more and more depressed.
Felix, more gloomy and embarrassed than usual, scarcely raises his eyes
from his plate. Except Scirocco, who absolutely cannot help her, nor
dares, only one notices and pities her misery--Erwin.
"What has become of your wild gypsy, Snowdrop?" asks Scirocco, among
other things.
"My wild gypsy has become a very tame gypsy, who lets my little
daughter ride her very good-naturedly," replies Elsa.
"Ah, Litzi rides already; then I must accompany her some day soon,"
says Scirocco.
"Do not break her heart. She likes you better than any one else now,"
says Elsa.
"That is quite mutual," he assures her. "I hope you will bring Litzi up
for me."
"Since we have been at Traunberg I have not yet been able to find a
suitable saddle-horse." Linda turns to Scirocco.
"If you are not a grandfather before Litzi thinks of marriage," Elsa
laughingly answers his last remark. "Do you know that you are beginning
to grow gray?"
Whereupon be, turning to his right, says: "You will find the country
very pleasant for riding, Baroness--many meadows," and to the left:
"You always were accustomed to discover the mote in my eye, Snowdrop!"
"Why did you never mention your wish to me, Linda?" asks Erwin across
the table. "I can place a horse at your disposal which might suit you."
"Riding is a very pleasant pastime--will be a great resource for you,
Baroness," remarks Pistasch.
"Ah! Do you think that I will need many resources in Traunberg?" asks
Linda, bitterly.
"Well, life in the country is always monotonous," he says politely but
somewhat hesitatingly.
"These _patis_ are excellent, Mika," now says the bass voice of Klette,
at his right. She has known him all his life, has dandled him on her
knees when he wore short dresses, still calls him by his Christian
name, and is one of the few people who remember that he was really
baptised Michael.
He gives a servant a sign. "Shall I help you?" he asks with droll
gallantry.
"I have nothing against it--two, please," she replies.
"How is Marienbad looking? Any new beauties?" he asks.
"Don't be so lazy, and come over and see for yourself," says she with
her mouth very full.
"I was there Saturday at the fair. Ruined myself buying cigar-cases. I
place six at your disposal, Caroline. But on my word, it is astonishing
what trash they had at the fair."
"You distinguished yourself," cries the hostess, laughingly.
"Yes, unfortunately I took a Ring Street beauty for the F---- from the
Carl Theatre, and asked her how much a kiss cost. Her ladyship entered
into the joke, and answered that she only sold cuffs, and as I
persisted--_pour la bonne cause_, she replied in perfectly good French,
'_La bonne cause s'en effaroucherait_,' then I grew urgent. 'Count
Kamenz!' cried a warning voice near me. I look up, and behold beside
me, the picture of offended dignity, the husband."
"And how did you get out of the scrape? What did you say?" asks Klette.
"I?--What could I say?--'Ah, pardon'--and decamped!"
"Cool! Very!" remarks Rhoeden, who has been reconciled to Pistasch
again, laughing.
"I only wondered that he knew my name so well," says Pistasch,
meditatively, with feigned simplicity. "I do not know to this day what
his name is. His wife was a magnificent creature, on my word--what a
pity!"
"I think she was sadder at the interruption than you," says Rhoeden.
"Possibly," replies Pistasch, calmly.
The trivial little story has seemed diverting enough to all present
except Linda. Is that the way in which young people of society speak of
pretty women out of their sphere, to whom they pay attentions? she asks
herself.