XVII.

A small room with large windows opening on the park, innumerable

flowers in vases of different forms standing about the room, a perfume

as intoxicating and painfully sweet as poison which gives one death in

a last rapture; on the walls, hung with silver-worked rococo damask, a

few rare pictures, only five or six; two Greuze heads with red-kissed

lips and tear-reddened eyes, eyes which look up to heaven because earth

has deceived them; then a Corot, a spring landscape, where dishevelled

nymphs dance a wild round with dry leaves which winter has left; a

Watteau, in which women, in the bouffant paniers of the time of the

regents, with bared bosoms and hair drawn high up on their heads, touch

glasses of champagne with gallant cavaliers, a picture in which

everything smiles, and which yet makes one deeply mournful; a picture

in which men and women, especially women, seem to have no heart, no

soul, no enjoyment on earth, no belief in heaven; but in deepest

_ennui_ float about like butterflies, tormented by the curse of the

consciousness that their life lasts only from sunrise to sunset; a

Rembrandt, a negress, brutally healthy, bestially stupid, with dull

glance, broad, hungry lips, huge, homely, and wholly satisfied with

herself and creation; about the room soft, inviting furniture; no

dazzling light, pale reddish reflections; draperies in Roman style,

artistic knick-knacks and soft rugs--this is what Erwin finds as,

pushing aside the drawn portieres, he enters Linda's boudoir without

announcement.

Amid these surroundings she sits at an upright piano, and softly and

dreamily sings an Italian love-song.

Erwin comes close up to the piano. "Ah!" cries she, springing up. It

would be impossible not to see what unusual pleasure his visit gives

her. Her eyes shine, and a faint blush passes over her cheeks. "Erwin,

did you not receive my letter?" she cries almost shyly, and gives him a

soft hand which trembles and grows warm in his.

"Certainly," he replies. "It was very nice in you to consider our

foo----" in spite of all the bitterness which for the moment he feels

toward Elsa, he cannot use the byword foolish, and rather says--"little

traditions. I only came for a moment, I----" he hesitates. "Elsa hopes

that you will do us the pleasure of dining with us Sunday."

"Sunday?" repeats Linda, letting her fingers wander absently in dreamy

preluding over the keys.

"Have you planned anything else?" asked Erwin, who had meanwhile taken

a very comfortable chair.

"What should I have planned?" asked she, shrugging her pretty

shoulders. "No, no, I will come gladly. You are very good to me, Erwin,

and I am inexpressibly thankful to you."

A strangely exaggerated feeling was in her accent, in her moist glance,

and the quick gesture with which she stretched out both hands to him.

"Where is Felix?" he asked, turning the conversation.

"Felix is, I believe, over in Lanzberg," she answered. "He has

'something to attend to.' He always has 'something to attend to' when I

expect people," she added, bitterly. "It makes my position so

uncommonly easy, Erwin! Can you account for his behavior? Would you, if

you had once resolved to choose a wife of unequal birth, afterward be

so passionately ashamed of her as Felix is?"

"How can you talk so foolishly, Linda?" Erwin interrupted the young

wife, uneasily.

"Foolishly!" Linda shook her head with discouragement. "If you only saw

him! Lately he made a scene before I could be permitted to accept the

Deys' invitation; then, at the last moment, he had a headache, and

expressed the wish that I should join Elsa and go without him."

"Strange idea to hang this monster in your pretty rococo nest!" cried

Erwin, growing more and more embarrassed, and abruptly changing the

conversation from Felix to the Rembrandt negress.

"The monster pleases me, I like contrasts--but to return to Felix----"

"You expect Pistasch and Sempaly, do you not?"

"They wished to come this evening--alas--I could renounce their

society; to-day I should like greatly to confide in you, Erwin. You are

the only person who is sorry for me."

There was a pause in the conversation of the two. Without, a murmur

like a sigh of love sounds through the trees, and a few withered

rose-leaves are blown into the room. Erwin's glance rests dreamily upon

the young woman. She pleases him in somewhat the same manner as the

Greuze head on the wall; no, differently--there is always something

dead about a picture. A picture is either a recollection preserved in

colors or a dream, and has the charm of a recollection, of a dream;

while Linda has the charm of a foreboding, of a riddle, and above all

things, the charm of life, of full young life.

Then a carriage approaches. "Pistasch and Sempaly," cries Erwin,

looking out of the window and seizing his hat. "On Sunday, eh, Linda?"

says he in a tone of farewell.

"Now you run away from me just like Felix," cries she, pouting. "Please

stay; it is so unpleasant for me to receive young people without a

protector."

And he stays.

"You have come late; we have scarcely three-quarters of an hour of

daylight left."

With these words, spoken in a very indifferent tone, Linda receives the

young men. "Shall we set about it at once?" she continues.

The lawn-tennis court is in a broad flat meadow in the park. The ground

is not yet dry from yesterday's rain, still the players are unwearied,

Erwin, after a short time, as animated as the others. He competes

vigorously with Pistasch, whose skill he soon surpasses, and enjoys the

society of the two agreeable and to-day good-tempered young men, who

are both old acquaintances of his.

Pistasch in old times he has pulled by the ear, paid his youthful

debts, and on holidays taken him away from the Theresanium; with

Scirocco, who is but little younger than Erwin himself, he has taken an

Oriental trip, they were both overturned in the same drag, both raved

over the same dancer, etc.

Merry reminiscences pass between the players almost as quickly as the

tennis balls, and Linda encourages all these reminiscences most

charmingly; her smile lends a new spice to the play and the

conversation.

Erwin is of a much too lovable nature, is far too much occupied with

the happiness of others and too little with his own, to think of what

might have been if he had not, for love of Elsa, renounced the world.

He possesses a decided disinclination for the "if," always looks

straight before him, never behind him. It does not even occur to him

to-day, when he is vexed with Elsa, to complain of the serious monotony

of his life, to philosophize, but he feels well, likes to amuse himself

again, laughs frequently, and is not unsusceptible to the evident wish

to please him which Linda shows. No objection can be found to her

behavior to-day--it is animated without being loud, cordial without

being coquettish.

The three-quarters of an hour are over, the daylight has become first

pale, then gray, the balls have flown aimlessly, like plump night birds

through the air; they have laughed, ridiculed the opposite side for

their faults, finally lost several balls, and come to the conclusion

that for the present nothing more can be done.

The players have now assembled for a light supper in the somewhat

gloomy dining-room, from whose walls a few old portraits, gentlemen

with huge wigs and large flowered brocade vests, ladies with wasp

waists and immoderately high powdered coiffures, look down upon them.

The light of the lamps is reflected in the crystal decanters, in which

red and white wine sparkles; the flowers, a mixture of transparent

ribbon-grass and wild roses, move softly in their vases in the middle

of the table, trembling in the night air which streams in through the

open windows. Beautiful fruit shines fresh and inviting, in silver

dishes, and Linda presides, somewhat flushed, cordial and wonderfully

pretty. No annoying servants disturb the pleasant little repast.

Pistasch behaves like the perfect gentleman which he is when he does

not consider it his duty to be a perfect boor, or does not take

pleasure in representing a perfect street Arab. He entertains the

little circle by gay anecdotes, is attentive without impertinence to

the hostess.

Scirocco, more serious in manner, nevertheless laughs at his cousin's

jokes, and often interposes a witty little remark.

Erwin is as gay as the two others, but from time to time, however, his

conscience reminds him that this is not the place for him, and that it

is time for him to return home. "But can I leave my young sister-in-law

alone with the two men?" he calms his inconvenient conscience.

"Impossible!" He must wait for Felix to return.

That Kamenz and Sempaly, well-bred as both are, and with no cause for

importunity, would both leave as soon as he should start, he does not

tell himself.

Then a carriage rolls up to the castle. Linda rises to go to the

window. "Felix!" she cries in her clear, childish voice. No answer

follows. Her eyes become gloomy, she listens, evidently listens to see

whether he will go to his room without appearing to his guests. Then a

dragging, stumbling step is heard in the corridor. "Felix!" cries

Linda, excitedly and imperiously.

The door opens, Felix enters, he stumbles into the dining-room, his

face is red and swollen, his eyes have a watery look, his knees bend at

every step, and a repulsive flabbiness is betrayed in his whole form.

"You have guests?" he says, thickly.

"Sit down, you are not well," cries Erwin, seizing the staggering man

by the arm, and forcing him into a chair.

"No--but--the----" begins Felix, and breaks off, not able to finish the

sentence.

A pause ensues. The little company seem paralyzed with alarm and

disgust. Then Sempaly rises. "We thank you for a very pleasant evening,

Baroness," he turns politely to Linda, and he and his cousin withdraw.

Linda is as white as the table-cloth. "Come, Felix, lie down," says

Erwin to his brother-in-law, whose condition he does not wish to expose

to the impertinent curiosity of servile lackeys.

"A cigar," murmurs Felix, excusing himself like all drunkards.

"Come;" Erwin urges him more sharply. Felix is about to make some

reply, when he discovers his wife, turns his head away, and trembling

throughout his entire frame, lets himself be taken to his room without

resistance.

When Erwin returns to the dining-room to bid farewell to Linda, he

finds her still deathly pale, with gloomy eyes, sitting in the same

place.

"Linda, you are wrong to take this so seriously," says he, softly and

consolingly; "it is really often an accident, a glass of poor wine----"

At his first kind word she has burst into tears. "It is not the first

time," she replies, with difficulty restraining her tears. "Ah! if

it--if it was only because the wine went to his head or--but no--a year

ago he was the most temperate man in the world--it began in London. It

cannot all be my fault. What is the matter with him? My God! What is

concealed from me?"

A new light dawns upon Erwin's mind; Linda's lack of tact is excused; a

boundless pity overcomes him.

At a violent motion of her pretty head her hair has become loosened and

now hangs in silken splendor over her shoulders.

"Calm yourself, fasten up your hair, be prudent, my poor little

sister-in-law!" says Erwin. Softly and involuntarily, as one would do

to a child, he strokes the hair back from her temples.

She tries to fasten it up, but suddenly she lets her arms sink, and

looking directly at Erwin out of moist but not disfigured eyes, she

whispers, "I cannot reach so high, and do not wish to be seen thus by

my maid--it would be strange."

"Can I help you?"

She nods. Simply, but without undue haste or uneasiness, he twists the

beautiful hair, fastens it firmly as one who is accustomed to perform

such services. She keeps her head covered, breathes regularly, deeply,

audibly--accidentally he touches her little glowing ear, then she

starts. A clock strikes. "Half past ten!" cries Erwin, startled. "Good

night, Baroness; poor Elsa will not know how to explain my absence,"

and he rushes out.

"Your horse must be saddled," says Linda, but he does not return--a few

minutes later she hears him galloping rapidly away. "When he thinks of

his wife he always calls me Baroness," she murmurs to herself with a

peculiar smile.

An hour later Erwin knocks at his wife's door. "Who is it?" an

indifferent, sleepy voice asks from within.

"I."

"Ah, you, Erwin!" Elsa unlocks the door, and comes out in the corridor,

where only a single lamp breaks the darkness.

"Have you anything particular to ask me?" says she, and her feverish

sparkling eyes contradict the indifferent voice.

"Nothing," he whispers, softly. "I merely could not resolve to retire

without having bid you good night; I felt that you must be still awake.

Do you insist upon receiving me in the corridor?" he asks, smilingly,

as she has closed the door behind her.

"The baby is asleep," replies Elsa, coldly, rubbing her eyes with

ostentation.

"My voice will not wake her," he says, softly, taking Elsa's hand.

"Elsa, my dear pouting Elsa, forgive me," he whispers. "I had no right

to be angry and run away, merely because you were intolerable. It has

been a horrid day, let it at least have a good ending!"

He sees how she trembles, how she blushes, and tenderly he takes her

thin little face between both hands. Then, then she changes color, her

eyes open in wild horror, and she starts back from him with a gesture

of decided aversion, but quickly collecting herself, and forcing

herself to smile, she gives him her hand and says, "Good night!"

How she has pained him! Is her love dead? He cannot understand her

manner. How could he? He does not notice that on his hands, in his

clothes has remained the peculiar perfume which a gallant diplomat had

brought Linda from Constantinople.