Linda knocked in vain at her husband's door. In spite of her coaxing
requests she had not been admitted. More and more horrible thoughts
occurred to her. In ever more interesting colors her imagination
painted her husband's secret. She expected that he would appear at tea;
he excused himself, and did not leave his room again that day. She grew
more and more excited--she did not sleep that night, only towards
morning did she close her eyes.
Felix was no longer in the house when she had risen; he had ordered a
horse saddled at six o'clock that morning, and had ridden over to
Lanzberg.
Linda grew impatient. "Can I find old letters anywhere?" thought she.
"In any case I must look through the attic rooms some day." She ordered
the keys of the upper story. Mrs. Stifler, the housekeeper, looked upon
it as understood that the young wife would require a guide for her
wanderings, and prepared to accompany her. But, pleasantly as she
treated all the servants, and especially those who had been in the
family from one generation to another, Linda declined the old woman's
company.
At first she had difficulty in finding the right key for the different
keyholes. As the rooms for the most part opened into each other, and
only the doors into the corridor were locked, that was soon overcome.
None of the rooms were quite empty and none were fully furnished. An
odor of mould and dry flowers and close, oppressive air filled them. On
all objects dust lay like a gray seal of time. Some of the rooms had
such thick curtains that only here and there a bluish white streak of
light lay on the floor, amid the dark shadows; others, and the most,
had neither curtains nor blinds, and the light in them was dazzlingly
bright. There stood a gilded carved arm-chair with brocade covering
of the style brought from France in those days when Maria Theresa
called the Pompadour "_ma chere cousine_," and near by a whole row of
spindle-legged chairs with lyre-shaped backs in the stiff style of the
Empire. And the arm-chair looked handsome and arrogant, the chairs
hideous and pretentiously solid--and both alike were long ago
unavailable and did not know it! Alabaster and porcelain clocks with
pillars for ornaments, and thin Arabian figures on large white dials,
slept away the time on yellow commodes with inlaid wood arabesques.
Many family portraits of long-ago generations hung on the walls, mostly
oil paintings, the men all standing in very narrow coats with very
large revers, their hands on their hips, their eyes contracted to that
narrow exclusive gaze which overlooks all unpleasant circumstances of
life and worldly affairs, characteristic of the manly _ancien regime_;
the women all seated, with broad sleeves and curls arranged in the
English fashion; in the eyes that charming, unabashed gaze which on
their side characterizes the women of the _ancien regime_, a gaze which
sees in poverty only picturesque objects at the side of their path; a
gaze which, mild and loving as it is, yet pains because it is
accustomed to nothing but the beautiful, expects nothing but the
beautiful, and therefore humiliates misery and hideousness.
Linda felt embarrassed at so much of the past; a certain hesitation,
which did not accord with her indiscreet, egotistical, pushing nature,
paralyzed her hands, while she, prying into Felix's secret, opened old
chests and pulled out drawers.
She found trophies of the hunt, an old brocade gown, in a wardrobe a
bridal wreath and a half dozen old riding boots; she found old notes,
books, albums full of copied poems, books of Latin and Greek exercises,
and an ambitious plan for dramatizing Le Cid, in round, childish
writing, old bills, receipts, but she found no old letters.
In one of the last rooms she discovered a newer secretary, which was
ornamented with painted porcelain tablets, on which pink and sky-blue
ladies walked in brilliant green landscapes. Linda opened every drawer,
knew how to fathom the most secret compartments, and finally discovered
a bundle of old letters tied with a black ribbon. Her heart beat
rapidly; she was about to hurry away when a picture with face turned to
the wall attracted her attention. The dust upon it was more recent than
upon the other objects. Not without difficulty she turned it around,
and uttered a little "Ah!" of admiration.
The picture was no better painted than most modern family portraits,
but it represented the handsomest young man who ever wore the green
uniform of the Austrian Uhlans, of '66. The carriage of the young
officer, who sat there carelessly, with head slightly bent forward and
sabre between his knees, was well portrayed. Linda thought that she had
never seen a more fascinating man; the pleasant mouth, the shy and yet
confident glance, the naive arrogance of the whole expression--all
pleased her. Who could that be? She went down stairs and commanded two
servants to bring the picture to the drawing-room at once. One of the
servants--it was Felix's old valet--permitted himself to remark, "The
Baron did not like the picture, and in consequence had banished it to
the second story."
Linda insisted that her command should be executed. "Do you know whom
the picture represents?" she asked, as she passed.