It is already twilight. Eugene von Rhoeden sits with his cousin Raimund
in the Harfinks' drawing-room. As Pistasch had ridden to Traunberg,
where Rhoeden seldom accompanied him, the Countess Dey was in bed with
a headache, and Scirocco had one of those fits of desperate melancholy
which so often tormented him, and was wandering about the woods, Eugene
had nothing to do in Iwanow. For a change he had ridden over to
Marienbad. At the forest spring, where the guests were assembled around
the music-stand, he had met Raimund, and had heard from him that "the
old man" had driven over with his wife to see the arrogant Linda; he,
Raimund, had spared them his society.
Eugene resolved to await the return of the pair; it interested him to
learn something about the result of the visit.
The two cousins soon came to the conclusion that the music and the
crowd around the pavilion were intolerable as well as the heat, and
betook themselves to the _Muehl strasse_, where Papa Harfink, more
conservative than superstitious, and besides wholly secure in his new
happiness from indiscreet visits of Susanna's ghost, occupied the same
apartments in which for long years he had "suffered" every summer with
the deceased.
With a tinge of bitterness Eugene looked about him as he entered the
bright room in which he had passed so many sweet hours with Linda.
There stood the old-fashioned arm-chair yet, with the same covering,
now, to be sure, worn at all the corners, the chair in which she used
to lean back in the sultry summer afternoons, teasingly pulling to
pieces his last gift of flowers with her delicate fingers, while Papa
Harfink snored in the adjoining room; Mamma Harfink, in her maid's
room, discussed the cut of her new toilet with the latter, but he,
Eugene, crouching at the feet of the young girl, told her gay, trifling
little stories, many times half-jokingly interspersing a tender word.
Then she threw a flower in his face; her hand remained imprisoned in
his, and he kissed it for punishment. Thus it went on for hours, until
Papa Harfink entered the room with scarcely opened eyes and hair
tumbled by sleep, and asked, "Are we going to have coffee at home
to-day?"
Eugene had never seen the room since he had rushed into it, now more
than five years ago, the bunch of white gardenias in his hand, and had
found his cousin Lanzberg's _fiancee_. At that time he had not changed
his expression, had not by one word betrayed his passion, knowing well
that a man like him who wishes to rise in the world is condemned to
perpetual agreeableness.
How he had felt at that time!
His was no sentimental nature, but he had a faithful memory, and
remembered distinctly how he had murmured the most polite phrases of
congratulation; had drawn a comparison between himself and the man of
old family, and beside, Felix had seemed to himself like a handsome
dry-goods clerk.
His love for Linda--it had been genuine of its kind--had long fled, but
the wound which her vanity had inflicted in his still burned. The wish
to repay Linda for her arrogance still animated him.
The hour was near.
Outside a carriage was heard, then loud, creaking steps on the wooden
stairs; a hoarse, croaking woman's voice gasped out from time to time
furious and incomprehensible words; the door opened and Juanita
entered. Crimson, with swollen veins and sparkling eyes, she threw her
fan, broken in the middle, upon the table.
In vain did Papa Harfink again and again stretch his short arms out to
her and cry, "Lovely angel, calm yourself!" She had no time for love.
"To insult me!--me--me!" she beat her breast; "me, Juanita, the
Marchesa Carini--bah!" she clenched her fist, "he, a criminal--a----"
"Who has insulted you, who is a criminal?" asks Raimund.
"He--he--this Lanzberg!" she gasps. "Oh, I will revenge myself--they
shall see--I will revenge myself--Caro, Caro!" screams the Spaniard.
Caroline is the maid, who enters at her mistress's loud cry.
"Bring me the little black casket with the golden bird!" commands
Juanita.
The maid disappears; soon she returns with the casket, which she places
upon the table before her mistress, whereupon she withdraws.
The blood throbs in Eugene's finger-tips, but, apparently perfectly
indifferent, he stoops for the lace scarf which, with a quick gesture,
Juanita has thrown from her upon the floor. Papa Harfink, who took the
matter very phlegmatically, rang to order a flask of spring water and a
lemon.
Juanita rummaged for a long time among old newspapers in which her
triumphs were recorded. She turned them over more and more uneasily.
Papa Harfink had long since ordered his spring water, when at last
Juanita "found it."
"There it is!" cried she. "Will you read it?"
Eugene von Rhoeden refused. Raimund read it aloud.
It was an article in a scandalous journal which appeared in Vienna
early in the sixties, but since then had failed or been suppressed. In
that impertinent tone of cheap wit which seeks intellect in mockery,
knowledge of human nature in cynicism, the story was told of a very
arrogant young blue blood who in a weak hour had forged his father's
name and who "now could further cultivate his talent for drawing in the
prison of T----."
The name of the young man was given as Baron L----. Some one had
written "Lanzberg" above it.
"That is not possible!" cried Raimund.
"Oh, if you please--if you please--possible!" screamed Juanita. "It is
all true--perfectly true!"
"I once heard something of that," declared Harfink, senior, whom the
whole story troubled very little, and who had not enlightened Susanna.
Rhoeden was silent.
"And this despicable rascal has dared to marry into our honest family!"
cried Raimund, beside himself.
"Susie knew of it! He-he-he!" burst out Mr. Harfink, who now only too
gladly accused the deceased.
"My mother knew it!" Raimund struck his forehead. "Linda surely does
not know it!"
"Leave her in her delusion," said Eugene, sweetly. "One cannot change
matters in the slightest, and all these years Felix has behaved so
blamelessly, so nobly, so----"
He knew that his praise of Lanzberg would bring forth a new burst of
rage from Juanita.
"Indeed!" now repeated the Spaniard, with malevolent emphasis, "nobly,
blamelessly!" and seized the paper.
"No; Linda must know it; I shall write to her this very day!" cried
Raimund.
"That you will not do," said Eugene, firmly.
"Why?"
"Because it would be vulgar." With that Eugene rose and took his hat.
Juanita had meanwhile added to the time-obliterated pencil-mark a new,
heavier one, had wrapped up the paper with remarkable deftness, and
addressed it.
"Will you put that in the post-box?" she asked.
"No, my dear madam," he replied, gravely, bowed and left. Behind him he
heard the voice of the Spaniard: "Caro, Caro--to the post--but
immediately!"
Through the damp evening shadows he trotted to Iwanow. He enjoyed the
pleasant conviction of having behaved throughout as an eminently
upright man, and also the pleasant conviction that he had attained his
aim.
At a turn of the road, castle Traunberg shone gray and ghost-like
between the dark old lindens. Eugene took off his hat, smiling
ironically, and murmured, "Good evening, Linda!"