CHAPTER I.

THE

BREAKING OF THE STORM.

BY

FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN.

Translated from the German

BY

S. E. A. H. STEPHENSON.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON.

1877.

(_All Rights Reserved_.)

THE BREAKING OF THE STORM.

BOOK III.--_Continued_.

CHAPTER III.

Philip had whispered to Reinhold that he would look him up presently;

Reinhold trembled for the result of a meeting between father and son,

which could not have occurred at a more unfortunate moment; but it

could not be helped, and he determined to employ the interval in saying

a few words of comfort, after the scene that had just taken place, to

the old clerk whom he had spoken to several times during the last few

days, and had learnt to look upon as certainly a peculiar but an

excellent and upright man. He found the old man in the little arbour at

the end of the narrow walk, between the garden and the building, in the

upper story of which he and Anders lived. He was sitting quite broken

down on the bench, while Cilli, who was with him, wiped the drops of

perspiration from his brow. She recognised Reinhold's step at once, and

said, as he entered the arbour:

"Thank God that you have come, sir! You were present. How did Herr

Schmidt take my father's confession? From what my father says, I

conclude very badly."

"On the contrary, Fräulein Cilli, my uncle is of opinion that between

two such old friends as himself and your father, a merely theoretic

difference is of no consequence."

"But if it should not stop at theory," exclaimed the old man, "if the

practical consequences are carried out by everybody--"

"But not by you, my dear Herr Kreisel! Answer me one question: would

you take advantage of any crisis in business to force from your

employer an increase of salary?"

"Never!" exclaimed the old man, "never!"

"You see for yourself! Though you may be perfectly right in theory,

between it and practice there lies, in the minds of educated people

like yourself, a long and rough road, into which you will never enter,

or on which, after the first few steps, you will stand still in

horror."

"Ah! yes, my nerves!" murmured the old man; "my nerves are not strong

enough for it. I am worn out; I believe he is right after all; an

hour's sleep would do me good."

He was persuaded by Reinhold and Cilli to go into the house; Reinhold

went a little way with him; when he returned to the arbour, Cilli was

sitting with her hands before her, and such an expression of deep

sorrow and trouble on her pure, gentle face, that it went to Reinhold's

heart.

"Dear little Cilli," said Reinhold, sitting down by her and taking her

hands in his "do not be so anxious. I give you my word that my uncle

does not dream of parting with your father; matters remain between them

exactly as before."

"Not exactly," answered Cilli, shaking her head; "since Thursday my

father has been quite changed. He has scarcely eaten or slept; and this

morning, quite early, he came to my bedside and said that he had no

longer any doubts, that he also was a Socialist, and he must tell Herr

Schmidt. That was quite right, as we ought always to tell the truth,

even in this case, when your uncle will not allow any Socialists on his

works. And although, as you tell me, and I believed before, your uncle

will make an exception in favour of my father, because he is old and

feeble, my father is proud, and will not endure to be merely tolerated,

all the more that he is undoubtedly in the right."

"How, my dear Cilli?" asked Reinhold, astonished. "Your father is in

the right?"

"Certainly he is," answered Cilli warmly; "is it not wrong that even

one man should suffer when others can prevent it? Did not Christ tell

us to feed the hungry, to give drink to the thirsty, to clothe the

naked, to comfort the oppressed and heavy-laden? And if Christ had not

commanded it, does not every good man's heart command it?"

"In that case, my dear Cilli, all good men must be Socialists, and even

I myself may lay claim to the title; but between the love of our

neighbours, as you describe it, and Socialism as these people desire

it, there is a wide difference."

"I see none," said Cilli.

Reinhold looked at the sightless eyes upraised with an expression of

gentle enthusiasm.

"I can well believe that you do not see it, poor child," he said to

himself.

"And on that point I am quite easy," continued the blind girl; "men

must live up to their convictions, and bear the consequences patiently.

And my father and I can do so the more easily, that at the worst we

shall not have to bear them long."

"What do you mean, dear Cilli?"

"I know that my father will not live long; the doctor has always feared

that he would sink under one of his nervous attacks; and once, when he

was very bad, he told me so, that I might be prepared. I am prepared.

And if my father could only believe that I should not outlive him long,

he would be more easy in his mind. He thinks so much of you; perhaps he

would believe you if you assured him of it."

"But how can I, dear Cilli?"

"Because it is only the truth. I am ill; dying of a nervous illness. My

blindness, which came on when I was three years old, is only the result

of this disease, which I doubtless inherited from my father. When I was

eight years old, and had a very bad illness, my parents called in two

doctors, and one said to the other as they went out--they said it in a

whisper, and probably did not intend me to hear, but they did not know

how sharp my hearing is--it would be a miracle if the child lived to be

sixteen. I shall be sixteen next spring, and--I do not believe in

miracles."

"Doctors often make mistakes; I hope they have made one in your case."

"I do not hope it--I do not wish it."

"But you love life."

"Only because I know that I must die soon, as you all say that I think

the world so beautiful only because I am blind. And when my dear father

is gone, whom shall I have to live for?"

"For your friends--myself, for example; for Justus, whom you love, and

who loves you."

"Who loves me?"

The blind girl's sweet mouth quivered. She drew two or three deep

breaths, but the tears would not be kept back; they streamed from the

poor blind eyes, and trickled through the slender white fingers with

which she tried to hide them.

"Cilli! Cilli! what is the matter?" exclaimed Reinhold, seized with a

painful foreboding.

"Nothing, nothing," murmured the blind girl. "You see yourself that I

am ill--very ill. Hark! whose is that strange step in the courtyard?"

Reinhold looked up and recognised Philip, who came rapidly along the

walk in search of him without looking into the arbour. He could not

bear the idea of being found here by Philip at this moment, he must

therefore make up his mind to leave Cilli, who herself implored him to

go.

"Leave me! leave me! before you I am not ashamed of my tears. You alone

may see me weep."

It was high time. Philip had already turned back and came towards him.

"Where the devil have you been? I have been looking for you in your

room, and all over the place."

"Your interview with your father cannot have lasted long."

Philip laughed bitterly.

"As if it were possible to talk to him! But I swear this shall be the

last time. No man in the world would endure it if he were a hundred

times his father."

Philip was furious; he stormed at his father's blindness and obstinacy.

From what he could gather about the course of the interview, Reinhold

could not quite justify his uncle, but he could not let pass the

outrageous expressions of which the angry man made use.

"Are you going to begin now?" exclaimed Philip. "It is partly your

fault. All that the old man said was only what you said to me yourself

yesterday. What in the world induced you to set him against a project

of which neither of you understand a word? He, in spite of his

knowledge of business; you, in spite of your seamanship. What does it

signify to you whether the harbour is east or north? Whether it is

choked up in one place or goes to the devil in the other? Do you intend

to invest your money in it? If others wish to do so, let them. Every

one can use his own eyes, and if he comes to grief it is his own

look-out. The best of it is that none of you who set your faces against

it can hinder the matter from coming to a conclusion; in fact, it is as

good as concluded now. Count Golm has joined the Provisional Board; and

it would be a good joke if a harbour on the east were decided upon, and

Golm and the daughter of our principal opponent, General Werben, who is

as obstinate as my father--good heavens! there is young Werben! I hope

he did not hear!"

This conversation had taken place while they walked up and down between

the blocks of marble in the courtyard. Ottomar had learnt at the house

from Grollman that Reinhold was in the courtyard, and now came suddenly

towards him from behind one of the blocks. He had heard nothing,

although Reinhold feared at first that he had from his gloomy and

embarrassed air. But his handsome young face cleared the next minute;

he held out his hand to him with the greatest cordiality, and then to

Philip with less cordiality.

"He had been meaning to come every day, but the worries of military

duty! Quite unbearable, my dear fellow! You have no conception what it

is; you, especially, my dear Schmidt; you never were in the army, for

reasons best known to the doctors. If I had a hand in the matter you

should serve your time yet in the Guards. But what brought me here in

this hand-over-head fashion was to bring you this invitation from my

father and the ladies, with a thousand excuses, but the card had

somehow been mislaid yesterday; for this evening--quite a small

party--a good many officers, of course, a few ladies, of course also.

There will be a little dancing, my sister says, who counts upon you. Of

course you dance; and my father, as he told me yesterday, wants very

much to talk to you on important matters of which I know nothing; some

question about the harbour, I fancy. You see it is absolutely necessary

that you should accept. You will accept?"

"With much pleasure."

"That is capital."

Ottomar had during the last few words completely turned his back on

Philip; he now turned round.

"It will not be quite so lively as it was the other day at your house,

my dear Schmidt; it was quite delightful. I heard from Golm that there

was no end of a row afterwards, and the ladies were quite off their

heads. So sorry I could not come; but I had a fearful headache; and

headache, champagne, and pretty girls I have never yet been able to

stand in that order, though in the reverse order I have suffered from

them only too often."

"Bertalda was in despair," said Philip, who was inwardly greatly

irritated at the off-hand manner of the young guardsman.

"Dear little thing!" said Ottomar, shrugging his shoulders. "She says

just what comes into her head. She is a jolly little girl. I hope Golm

will behave well to her. But is not Herr Anders' studio in this

courtyard? His Satyr with the young Bacchus--or is it Cupid?--has made

a tremendous sensation. I have never been in a sculptor's studio; would

it be too much, my dear fellow, to ask you to get me admitted?"

Reinhold was quite willing. Philip remarked carelessly that if the

other gentlemen had no objection he would take the opportunity of

inquiring about the four marble statues which he had ordered of Anders

for his staircase, and of which two must be finished by this time. He

had inwardly hoped that Ottomar would be impressed by "the four marble

statues." Ottomar did not even appear to have heard him. He walked on

in front, with his arm in Reinhold's, to whom he spoke in so low a tone

that Philip could not hear what he said, probably was not meant to

hear.

"Generous to remind me of it--a _petit souper_--in honour of Count

Golm, who appears to be very susceptible of such ovations--slipped in

quite by chance--came away immediately. Don't say anything about it."

"Can you suppose----"

"One drops a word sometimes without thinking of it--and it arouses

suspicion--the ladies and--_ces dames!_--a very different matter, thank

goodness! My sister--your cousin--had the honour casually a few days

ago. Should be in despair if a word--the young lady is an artist, my

sister tells me. One can hardly picture to oneself an artist, and a

lady artist. After you, I beg!"

Reinhold, who knew by experience that in consequence of the noise of

hammers and chisels in Justus's studio, a knock at the door was seldom

heard, had gone before and opened the door at once, and had got some

way into the room before he saw, in a corner before a cast at which

Justus was working, the latter standing with Ferdinanda. Ottomar and

Philip had followed him so quickly, that they had all got into the

middle of the large room before the two, who were engaged in earnest

conversation and bewildered by the noise around them, heard them come

in, till Justus's Lesto--a shaggy little monster, of whom it was

difficult to tell which was his head and which was his tail--flew with

a loud bark at Philip, whose polished boots seemed to arouse his wrath.

In the tumult caused by this bold attack--while Philip, fearing for his

trousers, took refuge on a stool, and Justus, nearly dying of laughter,

vainly called "Lesto! Lesto!" and the four or five assistants, with

Antonio amongst them, moved a few obstacles out of the way, and brought

chairs--Reinhold had not noticed the deep blush that overspread

Ferdinanda's beautiful face when she perceived Ottomar, and the

embarrassment with which the latter greeted her. By the time the

confusion was somewhat allayed, and Lesto had subsided into quiet, the

two had recovered their presence of mind, and the more easily that the

first glance that passed between them was one of reconciliation. He had

returned to her after three long anxious days, which she had passed in

longing and despair. Now all was made up--all was forgiven and

forgotten. After the first happy and tremulous glance, she had not

again looked at him, and was now chatting with Reinhold and Philip; but

to Ottomar, the fact that she remained, that she did not after the

first greeting retire into her studio, the door of which stood open,

was an infallible proof of her penitence perhaps, certainly of her

love. And then the full, somewhat deep tone of her voice--he seemed to

hear it for the first time; and he did hear it for the first time. Till

to-day they had only exchanged hasty whispered words. Her laugh--he had

never thought that she could laugh--it seemed to him a very miracle;

her figure, whose classical form appeared more beautiful in the

straight, clinging, grey working dress than it could have done in the

most coquettish attire; the rich brown hair, drawn simply back from her

brows and loosely knotted together low down in her neck--he had never

known how beautiful she was! He stood before finished and unfinished

works--they might have been the slides of a magic-lantern; he spoke to

one and the other, chatted and joked; he had no idea what he said or

what they answered; he was in a dream--a sweet and delicious dream--but

for a few minutes only; then he awoke to a sense of the situation in

which he found himself--a situation which he could hardly have wished

more favourable, and the advantages of which he was determined to

profit by with rapid soldier-like courage and rashness.

And Ferdinanda was also dreaming the sweet, delicious dream of happy

love, while she chatted and laughed with the others; only she never

forgot or mistook the danger of the situation. From Reinhold, Justus,

and Philip she feared nothing; a little prudence, a little clever

acting, would suffice to protect her from any shadow of suspicion as

far as they were concerned. But what prudence, however cunning, what

acting, however clever, would protect her from Antonio's gleaming black

eyes? It was true, he had returned to his work in the farthest corner

of the room, and hammered and chiselled away, apparently quite

unconcerned with anything that passed around him. But this very

quietness, which was only apparent, alarmed her a thousand times more

than if his glittering eyes had been continually upon her. What he did

not see he heard. She knew the incredible sharpness of his senses; if

he did not look round before, he would do so at the moment which she

saw approaching. And that moment had come. Ottomar, thinking himself

safe, approached her and whispered a word that she did not understand,

so low was it breathed. But what matter? She read it in his eyes, on

his lips: "I must speak to you alone--in your studio!"

But how was it to be managed? The moments were passing; there was so

much to be seen in Justus's studio, and the talk seemed endless. There

were the four life-sized allegorical figures for Philip's staircase.

"Trade, a bearded man of Oriental appearance and dress, calling to mind

Nathan on his journey home. Industry, as you will perceive, rather

vaguely represented by a female figure of the present day, with some

half-dozen emblems, which may mean anything you please--all possible

things--exactly as Industry herself makes everything possible out of

all possible things. This Greek youth, gentlemen, with his winged

sandals and hat, may be recognised at any distance as the genius of

railroads, as Hermes, if he had lived long enough, would undoubtedly

have been appointed Postmaster-General in Olympus. The tall, beautiful,

stately lady, in the dress of a Nuremberg lady of rank of the fifteenth

century, will be recognised by the mural crown on her head and the

square and level in her hand, as patroness of architecture--a neat

allusion to the suburban streets which the worthy possessor has had to

pull down, in order to build for himself in the middle of the town the

house the vestibule of which these masterpieces are to adorn."

"You are responsible for at least half a street, Anders!" cried Philip,

laughing.

"Ah!" said Justus, "that is the reason then that the lady looks so

gloomy and melancholy under her mural crown! I could not imagine what

was the meaning of the expression that, without my intending it--and

even against my will--would come out clearer and clearer; the good lady

has a pang of conscience which I ought to have had! Will any one say

now that we do not bestow our best heart's blood on our creations?"

"This last figure strikes me as being particularly beautiful, if I may

venture to make an observation on a matter on which I am profoundly

ignorant," said Ottomar, with a glance at Ferdinanda, who strikingly

resembled the lady with the mural crown, both in figure and in the

haughty expression of the features.

Justus, who had caught the glance, laughed. "You are not so ignorant as

you pretend, Herr von Werben! You appear to know very well where we get

our inspirations. But that you may see that other people can not only

inspire forms, but also create very beautiful ones--may we, Fräulein

Ferdinanda?" and Justus pointed to the door of her studio.

"Certainly," said Ferdinanda, while her heart beat fast. Now or never

was the time. Antonio had not looked round; perhaps he had not heard.

It might be possible to go in with Ottomar while the others lingered

behind. And so it happened. Philip and Reinhold were disputing about

one of the symbols assigned to Trade; Philip, annoyed and irritated by

the contradiction that met him on all sides to-day, in a loud, excited

voice. Justus, however, was following her and Ottomar closely. As she

got to the door, she turned and whispered to him, "Philip is unbearable

to-day; do try and make peace between them?"

Justus answered, "Oh! it means nothing," but turned back.

Ferdinanda entered quickly, followed by Ottomar. She walked a few steps

to the left, till she was quite concealed from those in the other

studio. Her arms encircled him, while she felt his arms around her.

Their lips met, while he tasted the sweetness of her first kiss.

"This evening?"

"As you will."

"Eight o'clock, in the Bellevue Gardens!"

"As you will."

"Darling!"

"Darling!"

They did not venture on a second kiss, fortunately, as Justus appeared,

bringing with him, for greater security, the disputants.

They stood before the "Reaper," while Justus explained that it had been

begun in the spring and intended at first for a pendant to the kneeling

"Roman Shepherd Boy" in the Exhibition--a girl, who, in the solitude of

her maize field, deep in the Campagna, hears the Ave Maria ring out

from the neighbouring convent, and who, laying aside her sickle and her

sheaf, folds her hands for a moment in prayer; that the figure was

nearly completed, attitude, gesture and expression, all quite

admirable, and would have done honour to the greatest sculptors; that

the greatest sculptors in Berlin had expressed their admiration; the

Milanese Enrico Braga, who had been there on a visit in the summer, was

quite overpowered. "And now, gentlemen, I ask you whether it is possible

for any woman, even the most gifted, to carry out persistently a

clearly defined aim! The statue is almost finished, only a few touches

are wanted, but those touches are not given; we are not in the vein, we

will wait for a more favourable day. One, two months pass, the day does

not come; the clay dries up in the most unfortunate manner, breaks and

splits everywhere--we have lost all inclination for the work. I had

made up my mind, at the risk of the deepest displeasure, to have the

'Reaper' secretly cast at night before it quite fell to pieces; when

about four weeks ago, one fine morning, I entered the studio--the

sweet, dreamy face, was changed into a Medusa head, whose terrible

eyes, under the hand that had in the meantime been laid on her brow,

stared into the distance, apparently expecting some one. I should not

like to be that some one. Would you, Captain?"

Reinhold nodded to the sculptor; the statue had made exactly the same

curiously mingled impression upon him, and he had almost expressed it

in the same words. He said, smiling: "No, indeed!"

"Put it to the vote!" exclaimed Justus eagerly. "Would you, Herr von

Werben?"

Ottomar did not answer. The work was begun in the spring; in the spring

he had exchanged the first tender love-tokens with Ferdinanda; then had

ensued a long, weary interval, during which she had altogether avoided

him; and though four weeks ago she had given way to his imploring

glances and resumed again their secret understanding, it had acquired

in the interval a totally different character; a gloomy, passionate

character, from which even he sometimes shrank. Was this the image of

her love? Was it he who was here waited for?

All this passed through his brain with the speed of lightning, but his

fixed glance had betrayed something of what was in his mind.

"Why say so much about it?" exclaimed Ferdinanda; "a work that must be

put to the vote is not worthy to exist."

She had seized the heavy mallet which lay on the table amongst her

other tools and swung it towards the statue. Justus caught hold of her

arm.

"Are you mad, Fräulein Ferdinanda? Cannot you understand a joke? I

swear to you that it was only a joke! That I admire it even more than

the former one! That you have surpassed yourself and me."

Justus was quite pale with excitement; the others hastened to assure

her that they were quite of the master's opinion, that they thought the

statue surpassingly beautiful, that they did not wish to see one

feature altered. Ottomar was foremost with his praises, and his

beautiful eyes entreated for forgiveness; but Ferdinanda was not to be

appeased.

"It is too late," she said, "the sentence has gone forth, and I am too

proud, I confess, to accept praise which comes as an afterthought. Calm

yourself, Anders; I will not destroy the statue, but I will never

finish it, that I swear!"

"And I am to be calm?" exclaimed Justus; "may I break stones in the

road if I do, if I--what is it, Antonio?"

Antonio had entered, whispered a few words to Anders and then retired;

as he went out he cast a gloomy look at the statue of the "Reaper."

"A gentleman from the committee," said Anders, "there is always

somebody coming; they will drive me wild. I will be back directly."

He hurried into his studio; Ottomar suggested that they had already

troubled the young lady too long: he expected that Ferdinanda would

press them to stay, but she did not; he bowed. "I hope, Ferdinanda,"

said Reinhold, "that you will not distress us, I mean all of us, by

carrying out your threat and leaving the statue unfinished."

"If you knew me better," said Ferdinanda, "you would know that I always

keep my word to myself and to others."

These last words she had, as if accidentally, addressed to Ottomar, and

accompanied it with a glance which Ottomar understood and returned.

Whatever became of the "Reaper," she would come that evening.

The door had closed behind the gentlemen; Ferdinanda bolted it and then

turned slowly round. Her fixed glance rested first on the spot where

she had kissed Ottomar for the first time, and then passed on to the

"Reaper." Was it an effect of light, or was it that others' words had

first made it plain to her what she had produced? A shudder passed

through her.

"I keep my word when I have given it--but I wish I had not given it!"

CHAPTER IV.

Ferdinanda had long ago emancipated herself from all control on the

part of her aunt. She was accustomed to go and come as she pleased; the

only point on which it was necessary to be attentive was punctuality at

meals. Her father was very particular about this, only Aunt Rikchen

declared, in order that he might worry her out of her five senses if

she ever happened to be delayed by her household duties or other

matters, as could hardly be avoided by such a poor creature. Ferdinanda

was aware also that her father avoided every opportunity of being alone

with his sister, and that it was therefore an especial annoyance to him

if she herself stayed away from meals on any pretence. Under such

circumstances her father always took his meals by himself in his own

room. But this had very rarely happened, even in former days, and

scarcely ever happened now. Ferdinanda had almost entirely withdrawn

herself from all her friends; she said often that she had no friends,

only acquaintances, and that she did not care much about them.

To-day she must pretend to visit some friend, and leave word at home

that she should not probably be back to supper, which was always served

at nine o'clock punctually. Her pride revolted at the necessity of the

lie, and such an improbable one, but she had given her word; whether

good or evil came of it, her fate was decided--the deed must be done.

She went therefore at half-past seven, with her bonnet and cloak on,

down to her aunt, who was invariably to be found at that hour in the

sitting-room behind the dining-room, where, in her seat near the

window, she could count her stitches by the fading light, watch the

passers-by without trouble, and, as Uncle Ernst said, indulge her

fancies quite undisturbed. The latter employment was the most

successful to-day; the stitches were very difficult to count, in

consequence of the gloomy weather, and the same cause had diminished

the number of passers-by, "as if they were all on strike, like those

abominable work-people;" besides the butcher had brought for the next

day a miserable leg of veal, which, that silly Trine, the cook, ought

never to have taken in, and for her punishment must take back again,

although Heaven only knew how she was to get the supper ready all

alone, for as for Trine being back in less than an hour, she knew the

idle thing better than that. And now Ferdinanda was going out--was

going to spend the evening out! Aunt Rikchen in despair snatched her

spectacles from her nose, and let her stocking, with the stitches she

had only just picked up, fall into her lap.

"Good gracious! has everything combined against poor me to-day?" she

exclaimed. "Reinhold has just been in to say that he will not be at

home either."

"Where is Reinhold?"

"Oh! did not he tell you? Quite a large _soirée_--that is what you call

it? He supposed he must put on his uniform."

"At whose house?"

"At the Werbens'! Young Herr von Werben came here himself this morning.

You saw him in your studio, by-the-bye! I know nothing about it!--of

course I know nothing about it. At eight o'clock. It must be half-past

seven already."

Ferdinanda's countenance fell. "At the Werben's! At eight o'clock! How

could that be!"

"And where are you going, if I may venture to ask?"

Ferdinanda told the lie she had prepared. She had spoken to Fräulein

Marfolk the artist at the Exhibition; Fräulein Marfolk had given her

such a pressing invitation to go and see her again; she had some

curiosities and photographs to show her, which she had brought from

Rome; this evening she happened to be disengaged. Professor Seefeld

from Karlsruhe would be there also, who was most anxious to make

Ferdinanda's acquaintance. She had accepted, and could not draw back

now.

"And poor I must eat my supper alone again!" said Aunt Rikchen; "for he

had rather eat a live crocodile with its skin and bones, in company

with seven Hottentots, than a comfortable mutton-cutlet with his poor

old sister. Well, I must bear it. I must bear everything. If the whole

business stands still, my poor intellect can stand still too, and my

poor old heart with it." Her misery was too great; Aunt Rikchen burst

into tears.

"What is the good of exciting yourself so unnecessarily?" asked

Ferdinanda impatiently.

"Exciting myself so unnecessarily!" exclaimed Aunt Rikchen. "Of course

you think everything unnecessary. But I see it coming. I noticed the

people as they went away this morning, how they stood there in the

street and stared up at the house, and shook their fists threateningly,

and abused the police who were dragging away those two wretches,

Schwarz and Brandt, and that silly boy Carl Peters; and they abused

your father, too. It was shocking to hear them! It makes me shudder

when I think of it, and of what may still happen, for we have not seen

the end yet--of that you may be sure. But you don't excite yourself of

course--not you!"

"I could not prevent it, and can do nothing against it," said

Ferdinanda.

"You might have prevented it, and you could still do something before

matters come to the worst, and they burn the roof over our heads!"

exclaimed Aunt Rikchen; "but I cannot see my hand before my eyes; I

cannot distinguish a church-tower from a knitting-needle."

"The old song!" said Ferdinanda.

"Every bird sings as he has learned," exclaimed Aunt Rikchen; "and if

my ways do not please you, it is only because in these days every

chicken is wiser than the hen; for if I am not your mother, I have

worried myself as much as two mothers about you, and have asked myself

a hundred thousand times what is to come of it? But perhaps Providence

may have willed it so; it is always, one way or another, kinder to you

than to other people. And I am not at all sure that your father has not

always intended it so, for I always had my suspicions of that thick red

pencil, when no one else was allowed to touch his plans with a finger;

and any old woman can see how highly he thinks of him, and he is

extremely brave and good, and it would keep the family together, if you

were wise and married him before in these bad times everything flies up

the chimney."

"Reinhold?"

"Did you think I meant the Emperor of Fez and Morocco? But you only

pretend to be astonished, and jump up off your chair in order to make a

poor old thing like me tremble in all her limbs, as if my nerves were

not already sufficiently dérangés--that is what you call it, is not

it?"

"I got up because it is high time for me to go," said Ferdinanda.

"Good-bye, aunt."

She had gone a few steps towards the door, when the portière which

covered it was slowly drawn aside.

"Mi perdona, Signora! Signora Frederica, your most obedient servant!"

Ferdinanda stood still in horror.

"What did Antonio come for at this moment?"

"Mi perdona!" repeated Antonio. "I fear that the ladies did not hear me

knock at the door, so I ventured to walk in."

And he pointed carelessly in his easy Italian fashion to some books

which he held in his hand.

"This is not the day for our lesson," said Ferdinanda.

"I cannot come to-morrow, signora, so I ventured--"

"I have no time to-day. You see I am just going out."

She said it in a hasty tone, for which there was apparently not the

smallest occasion, and which was a wonderful contrast to the Italian's

courteous, "Mi ritiro, e le domando perdona--buona sera, signora," and

the low bow with which he passed again through the portière.

"Why were you so sharp with the young man?" asked Aunt Rikchen.

Ferdinanda did not answer; she was listening for the soft footstep as

it retired, and for the sound of the closing door. Would it be the

glass door leading to the garden, or the other one which led to the

entrance hall? It was the glass door; he had not gone out then. And

yet. Why had she said that she was going out? Should she give it up?

But there was no time to think. With a half-murmured: "Good-bye, aunt,

I will make haste back," she had left the room and was standing in the

street, almost without knowing how she had got there.

She had intended to take a cab at the corner of the street, but the

stand was empty; she must make up her mind to walk along the

Springbrunnenstrasse as far as the Parkstrasse, where she hoped to find

one. Perhaps it would be better; she could more easily make sure of not

being followed than in a close carriage. As she walked hastily along

she looked back two or three times; a few people met her; no one was

behind her; she breathed more freely; he had not followed her. She

feared no one but him.

But he whom she feared to see behind her was at that moment far in

front.

Since this morning Antonio had felt certain that the relations between

the handsome young officer and Ferdinanda had entered on a new stage,

and probably something was going to take place, something that he must

know at any price, that he would know, however secretly they might go

about it. He had, therefore, made the lesson which he gave her once a

week in his own language, an excuse for approaching her, in order to

find fresh food for his jealous curiosity, which imagined all possible

things. He had found her, who so seldom left the house in the evening,

ready to go out, without having ordered the carriage as she usually

did. She had sharply rebuffed him, as if she suspected his motive; and

what at another time would have irritated him, now delighted him; his

suspicions had taken a definite form; a rendezvous was in question! His

determination to follow on her track was made even before the portière

had closed behind him.

He had purposely shut the garden door loudly in order that Ferdinanda

might believe that he had not left the grounds. But when he got into

the garden he had turned to the right and passed through an iron gate

into the court-yard, and in a few steps was in the entrance hall,

through which he passed into the street. The cab-stand at the corner

was his first aim also; he was obliged to pass the window at which Aunt

Rikchen sat; but if he stooped his head would be hidden by the elder

bush in the front garden. It was a disappointment to find the cab-stand

empty, but she would experience the same disappointment, but not before

she got to the corner of the street. At this corner there was a small

public-house which the workmen belonging to the studio were in the

habit of frequenting. He sprang down the steps, and stationed himself

at the window opposite the cab-stand. It was a mere chance--she might

go towards the town, or might already have done so; but no! there she

was! She paused a few moments exactly as he had done himself, and came

then past the window behind which he was concealed; his eyes were on a

level with the pavement; he could see her slender feet as she walked

quickly along, with her dress slightly raised. He let her get a little

in advance, then emerged again, assured himself that she was walking

down the street, dashed across the street and ran up the Kanalstrasse

towards a private path that ran between villas and gardens parallel

with the Springbrunnenstrasse and led also to the Parkstrasse. This

narrow lane was now, as almost always, quite deserted; he could run

along it without exciting any attention--not that he would have cared

about that; he should reach the Parkstrasse some minutes before she

did. Arrived there, he flew across the street, and stationed himself

between the shrubs in the Thiergarten, in such a manner that he could

command the opposite side of the Parkstrasse and the opening of the

three side streets. The opening of the private path immediately before

him was no longer of any consequence to him, but she must come along

the Springbrunnenstrasse on the left, and at the corner of the last

side street to the right there was a cab-stand. She might, it was true,

turn to the left, towards the town, but he would still see her, and he

was convinced that she would turn to the right. And she did turn to the

right. She emerged from the Springbrunnenstrasse and walked quickly

along the opposite side by the houses, past the cross street to where

the cabs stood. There were two cabs, she took the first; the driver of

the second politely shut the door after her, and then as the first

driver drove off, seized the reins and drew his horse forward. The next

moment Antonio was by his side.

"Where to?" asked the driver,

"Where that cab goes."

"To the Grosse Stern, then."

Antonio drew back his foot which was already on the step. The Grosse

Stern, at the opposite side of the Thiergarten, where the

Charlottenburg Avenue is crossed by several other paths, was not a

favourable place for a pursuit in a carriage, which in the great Platz,

and indeed on the way there, must excite remark and suspicion. There

was a surer way. What signified to him the energetic curse which the

disappointed cab-driver sent after him, as Antonio hastened past him

along the road into the Thiergarten! The Grosse Stern Avenue, a broad

ride, shadowed by old trees, by the side of which were foot-paths, led,

as he knew, right across the Thiergarten to the Grosse Stern;

Ferdinanda's cab must go round by the Corso Avenue. It was not much out

of the way, and her cab went unusually quickly; but he was in the

direct path, and could depend upon his muscles and sinews. He ran the

several thousand yards that he had to go with wonderful rapidity,

heeding as little the beating of his heart as the bloodhound heeds it

when on the track of a stag; in fact, the immense exertion seemed to

refresh him by overpowering for the moment his pangs of jealousy. He

had reached his destination; the Platz lay before him; an omnibus

coming from Charlottenburg rattled by without stopping; a few carts

were coming from the town; between them, and then in front of them, a

cab came rapidly along. It must be he! Antonio had hidden himself

amongst the bushes--he would be quite safe here: behind him was the

entire park, where he could, at the worst, at any moment retreat into

the darkness; and the bushes were so thick that the danger of being

detected from the Platz was very slight, while he could see everything

that passed there. The cab from the town had stopped; a gentleman

sprang out. The cab immediately turned round and drove back to the

town; the gentleman walked slowly along the Platz without stopping,

looking around him on all sides. Antonio was startled at the first

glance; the gentleman was not in uniform. Then with a scornful

"Bestia!" he struck his forehead; and now that the gentleman passed his

hiding-place at a short distance, he recognised his detested enemy by

his slight figure and easy movements. It was too dark to see his

features distinctly. But what matter? He knew quite well who was before

him, and his hand grasped more firmly the handle of his stiletto, which

he had drawn out, as a huntsman takes aim even when he knows that he is

not within shot; and he gnashed his white teeth as at this moment the

cab which he had passed came round the corner of the Corso Avenue,

turned on to the Platz, and there stopped, but only for a moment, only

that the man he hated might say a few words through the open door, then

jump in and close the door behind him. The cab went on across the

Platz, along the road to the Bellevue Schloss, and then disappeared

amongst the trees.

Antonio murmured through his teeth the bitterest curse that he knew.

The pursuit was at an end. He could not take a short cut, because he

did not know what direction they would take; he could not follow them,

that was impossible along the public road. It mattered little, either,

where the pursuit ended--for to-day!

But he could not make up his mind to go back or quit the Platz. It was

a splendid place for brooding over his revenge, while the darkness sank

deeper and deeper, and the leaves around him hissed like serpents'

tongues, and above him in the tops of the mighty trees there were

sighings and groanings as of a victim lying mortally wounded on the

ground.

CHAPTER V.

In the meantime the cab had only proceeded a short distance, to the

entrance of the Bellevue Garden.

"We are quite secure here, I swear to you," Ottomar had whispered, as

he helped Ferdinanda to alight. The driver contentedly pocketed his

thaler and immediately drove off. Ottomar gave Ferdinanda his arm and

led her, bewildered, frightened, and half stunned, into the garden. He

could hear her gasping for breath. "I swear it!" he repeated.

"Swear that you love me! I only ask that!"

Instead of answering he put his arm round her. She encircled him with

both hers. Their lips met in a long, burning kiss. They then hastened,

hand in hand, deeper into the park, till they were concealed by trees

and shrubs and then sank again into one another's arms, exchanging

burning kisses and words of love, intoxicated with the bliss of which

they had so long been dreaming, and which was now more precious than

they had ever imagined in their wildest dreams.

So at least thought Ferdinanda, and so she said, while her lips again

sought his, and so said Ottomar; and yet, at the very moment that he

returned her burning kisses, there was a feeling in his heart that he

had never known before, a dread of the flames that surrounded him, a

sensation as of powerlessness in the presence of a passion which raged

around and overpowered him with the irresistible might of a tempest. He

had until now played at love, had looked upon his easy conquests as

triumphs, had accepted the mute homage of beautiful eyes, the

flattering words of gentle lips, as a tribute due to him, and not

demanding any gratitude. Here, for the first time, he was the weaker.

He would not acknowledge it to himself, and yet he knew it, as an

experienced wrestler knows at the first touch that he has found his

master, and that he must succumb, unless some accident gives him the

advantage. Ottomar was already looking out for this accident, for some

event to occur, some circumstance that should give him the advantage;

then he blushed at his own cowardice, at his mean ingratitude towards

this beautiful, gifted being, who so confidingly, so devotedly, and

with such self-forgetfulness threw herself into his arms, and he

redoubled the tenderness of his caresses and the sweet flattery of his

loving words.

And then, that uneasy feeling might be a delusion; but she who had done

what he had so often, so pressingly implored of her, who had at length

granted him an interview, in which he could put before her his plans

for the future, she would and must expect that he would at length trace

out that sketch of the future over which he had so long delayed, and

which at this moment seemed to him as uncertain as ever. He did not

believe what she assured him, that she wanted nothing more than to love

him, to be beloved by him, that everything of which he spoke--his

father, her father, circumstances which must be taken into

consideration, difficulties which must be overcome--all, all was only a

mist, which would disperse before the rays of the sun; trifles not

worthy that they should expend upon them one moment of precious time,

one breath! He did not believe her; but he only too willingly took her

at her word, even now silently absolving himself from the

responsibility of the consequences which might, which must follow such

a neglect of the simplest rules of prudence and wisdom.

And then he, too, forgot everything but the present moment, and she had

to remind him that time was flying, that he was expected at home, and

must not arrive too late for the party.

"But will you take me with you?" she asked. "Will you enter the room

with me on your arm, and present me to all present as your bride? You

have no need to be ashamed of me; there are not likely to be many women

there whom I cannot look down upon, and I have always considered that

to be able to look down upon others is half way at least towards being

a fine lady. To you I shall always look up. Tall as I am, I must

stretch myself higher to reach your dear lips."

There lay a wonderful proud charm in these jesting words, and deep love

in the kiss which her smiling lips breathed upon his. He was

intoxicated and bewitched by this loving gentleness, this proud love;

he said to himself that she was right, and he told her so, that she

could bear comparison with any queen in the world, that she deserved to

be a queen; and yet--and yet--if it had been no jest, if she had

demanded in earnest what one day she would demand.

"That was the last kiss," said Ferdinanda. "As usual, I must be the

most reasonable always. And now give me your arm, and come with me to

the nearest cab, and then go straight home, and be very charming and

amiable this evening, and break a few more hearts in addition to those

you have already broken, and which you will hereafter lay at my feet in

return for my heart, which is worth more than all of them put

together."

It was nearly dark when they quitted the silent, deserted park; the sky

had clouded over, and heavy drops were beginning to fall. Fortunately

an empty cab came by, in which Ferdinanda could go as far as the

Brandenburg Gate, where she would take another, and thus destroy every

trace of her road. She only allowed Ottomar to kiss her hand once more,

as he helped her into the cab. Then she leaned back in the corner,

closed her eyes, and dreamed over again the happy hour. Ottomar looked

after the carriage. It was a miserable vehicle, drawn by a wretched

screw, and as it swayed backwards and forwards in the feeble light of a

few lamps, and disappeared in the darkness, a strange sensation of

horror and loathing came over him. "It looks like a hearse," he said to

himself. "I could hardly bear to touch the wet handle. I could not have

brought myself to get into it. The whole affair gets one into very

uncomfortable situations. The walk home is no joke, either; it is

nearly nine, and beginning to rain pretty hard."

He turned into the Grosse Stern Avenue, which was his shortest way

home. Under the great trees it was already so dark that he could only

just distinguish the foot-path along which he hastily walked; on the

other side of the broad road, along which ran a narrower foot-path, the

trunks of the trees were hardly perceptible in the darkness. How many

and many times had he ridden along this grand avenue--alone--with

brother officers--in a brilliant company of ladies and gentlemen--how

often with Carla! Elsa was right, Carla was a splendid rider, the best

probably of all the ladies, certainly the most graceful. They had been

so often seen and spoken of together--after all it was quite impossible

to draw back now; it would make such a frightful scandal.

Ottomar stood still. He had walked too fast. The perspiration was

streaming from his brow; he felt stifled, and tore open his coat and

waistcoat. He had never before experienced the sensation of physical

fear, but now he started and his eyes peered anxiously into the

darkness, as he heard behind him a slight rustle--probably a twig that

had broken in its fall.

"I feel as if I had committed a murder, or as if in another moment I

should be murdered," he said to himself, as almost running he continued

on his way.

He did not suspect that to the breaking of that twig he owed his life.

Antonio had lingered, as if under the influence of a spell, at the

entrance of the avenue, now sitting on the iron railing which separated

the ride from the foot-path, now pacing up and down, now leaning

against the trunk of a tree, always revolving the same dark thoughts,

concocting plans of revenge, delighting himself with the idea of the

torments he would inflict on her and on him, as soon as he had them in

his power, from time to time directing his glance across the Platz

towards the entrance of the other avenue, along which the carriage had

disappeared with them, as if they must reappear in that direction, as

if his revengeful soul had the power of compelling them. He could have

spent the whole night there, as a beast of prey, furious at the loss of

his victim, remains obstinately in his lair, in spite of the pangs of

hunger.

But what was that? There he came across the Platz directly towards him.

His eyes, accustomed to the darkness, recognised him as if it had been

bright day. Would the bestia be such a fool as to venture into the

avenue, to give himself into his hands? Per Bacco! he would--there.

After a short pause he turned into the avenue; on the other side of the

road, true, but so much the better, he could the more easily follow him

on this side; he had only to dash across the ride when the moment came;

in the deep sand his first steps would not be heard, and then in a few

bounds he would reach him and bury the stiletto in his back, or if he

should turn round, drive it up to the hilt under the seventh rib!

And his hand closed on the hilt as if hand and hilt were one, and with

the finger of the other hand he repeatedly tried the sharp point, while

he glided with long steps from tree to tree--softly, softly--the

tiger's velvet paw could not have fallen and been raised more softly.

They had reached the centre of the avenue. The darkness could not get

more intense; it was just light enough to see the blade of the

stiletto. One moment more, to assure himself that they were alone in

the dark wood--that other and himself--and now, crouching low, he

crossed the soft sand, behind the thick trunk which he had already

selected.

But, quickly as he had crossed, the other had gained some twenty paces

in advance. This was too much; they must be diminished by half. And it

would not be difficult. He was in the soft sand of the road, to the

right of the trees, while the other was on the hard foot-path to the

left, where the sound of his steps would overpower any accidental

noise. But, maledetto di Dio--his foot touched a dry twig, which broke

with a snap. He stepped behind a tree--he could not be seen; but the

other must have heard; he was standing still--listening, perhaps

awaiting his assailant--at all events no longer unprepared. Who

knew--he was a brave man and a soldier--perhaps he was turning to defy

his assailant. So much the better! only one spring from behind the

tree, and--he was coming!

The Italian's heart throbbed as if it would choke him, as he now with

his left foot advanced prepared for the spring; but his murderous

thoughts had affected his usually sharp hearing. The steps were not

coming towards him, but going away from him! By the time he became

aware of his mistake, the distance between them was quite doubled; and

trebled before, in his consternation, he could decide what was to be

done.

Give up the chase? There was nothing else to do. His prey was now

almost running, and a late cab rolled along the drive which crossed the

avenue, and on the other side of the drive were cross paths right and

left--he had no certainty of being able to carry out his intention or

of escaping afterwards; the moment was past--for this time, but the

next time!

Antonio murmured a fearful curse as he replaced his dagger in its

sheath and concealed it in his coat pocket.

The other man had vanished; Antonio followed slowly along the same

path, out of the park, along the Thiergartenstrasse, into the

Springbrunnenstrasse, and to the house in which the man he hated lived,

the windows of which were brightly lighted. A carriage drove up, an

officer and some ladies in evening dress, wrapped in their shawls, got

out; a second carriage followed. He, above, was now laughing and

feasting, and whispering at that moment to one of the pretty girls who

had just arrived what ten minutes before he might have whispered to

Ferdinanda. If he could only pour into her heart the poison of jealousy

which burnt in his own! If he could put some impossible barrier between

her and him! If the whole affair could be betrayed to the stern

_signor_, her father, or to the haughty _capitano_, his father, or to

both----

"Hallo!"

A man coming along the pavement had run up against him, as he leaned

with folded arms against the iron railing of the front garden, and had

called out rudely.

"Scusi!" said the Italian, lifting his hat. "I beg your pardon!"

"Hallo!" repeated the man, "is it you, Antonio?"

"Ah! Signor Roller, the overseer!"

"Signor Roller! overseer! No more signors and overseers for me," said

the man, with a loud laugh, "for the present at least--till we have

served out the old man; he and his nephew and the whole lot of them! If

I only had them by the throat! If I could only do them some injury! I

would not mind what it cost me, so it were not money! That is all

gone."

The man laughed again; he was evidently half drunk.

"I have money," said Antonio quickly--"and----"

"We'll have a drink then, Signor Italiano!" exclaimed the other,

clapping him on the shoulder; "una bottiglia--capisci!--ha, ha! I have

not quite forgotten my Italian!--Carrara marble--capisci, capisci?"

"Eccomi tutto a voi," said the Italian, taking the man's arm. "Where

to?"

"To drink, to the devil, to the public-house!" exclaimed Roller,

laughing and pointing to the red lamp over the public-house at the

corner of the Springbrunnenstrasse.

CHAPTER VI.

The three moderate-sized rooms in the upper floor of the small villa

inhabited by the General, in the Springbrunnenstrasse, were got ready

for the reception of the company; the larger room at the back was for

the present closed. The supper was to be served there, and later it

would be used as the dancing-room. Elsa went once more through the

rooms to see that everything was in order. She did not usually do this,

as she could quite depend upon the care and attention of the perfectly

trained August; to-day, for the first time, he seemed to have taken his

duties more easily. Or was it only her fancy? She asked herself this

while she moved a few candlesticks and put them back again, and altered

the arrangement of some nicknacks without being any better pleased with

their appearance. "I do not know what is the matter with me to-day,"

said Elsa.

She stepped before the looking-glass and contemplated her reflection

with the greatest attention: she did not think herself looking the

least pretty to-day. She was disappointed in her new blue dress; her

hair was done much too loosely, the rosebuds were decidedly too dark,

and were put in too far back; her eyes were not the least bright, and

her nose was perceptibly red on the left side. "I really do not know

what is the matter with me to-day," said Elsa.

She sank into an arm-chair, laid her fan and gloves in her lap, and

rested her head on her hand.

"I was looking forward so to this evening; but it is all Ottomar's

fault. How can any one marry without love?--it happens often enough

though. Wallbach certainly does not love Louise, any more than she

loves him; but Ottomar, who is so tender-hearted and can be so good and

dear! That detestable money! how can one man spend such a sinful

amount? I can't think how they manage it. Horses!--they always say they

have sold them for so many guineas more than they gave for them; I

don't believe it; I am sure they always lose; but even that would not

come to so much. I do not know; they say Wartenberg cannot manage with

twenty thousand, and, that Clemda, with fifty thousand, incurs debts to

that amount every year--it is incredible! What good would my poor five

thousand do him, and he would have to wait, one way and another, nearly

five years for it. And if I fell in love with somebody who was not

noble, and lost my portion--I should not care, of course not, but I

could not give him anything if I had not got it myself--to say nothing

of papa, who would certainly not allow it, though he is always talking

about him; but it is all about the harbour, which is never out of his

head--but I am so glad that he always talks so kindly of him--so

glad--"

"Good heavens, child, what are you doing?"

"What is it?" exclaimed Elsa, starting up from her dreams, and looking

with a startled expression at her aunt, who, no less startled, stood

before her.

"Your new tarlatane dress! You are completely crushing it."

"Is that all?" exclaimed Elsa, drawing a deep breath.

"Oh, it is nothing to you!" exclaimed Sidonie. "You do not care about

things that I care about very much, but I am getting accustomed to that

by degrees!"

"Dear aunt!"

Elsa had thrown her arms round her aunt and kissed her; the kind

creature wanted nothing more. "Well, well," she said, "you careless

child! You will quite spoil your pretty dress."

She had freed herself from Elsa's embrace, and was smoothing and

arranging her darling's dress. "There, step back a little; you look

charming this evening, Elsa."

"I don't think so at all."

"Like my Princess! The evening that the Duke, her present illustrious

husband, was to be presented to her for the first time, 'I don't think

I look at all pretty to day,' said she."

"But I am not going to be presented to a Duke," said Elsa.

"How you do mix things up, child! As if you could marry a reigning

prince, except by the left hand! Besides, we shall only have a member

of a former reigning house here. Prince Clemda, and he is already

betrothed. So I could not be thinking of him."

"And of no one else, I hope, aunt."

"I must be very much mistaken, Elsa, or your blushes--yes, you are

blushing, my dear child, and you blush more and more, though it is

quite unnecessary before your aunt. I can assure you, on the contrary,

that I consider the match in every respect a most proper and desirable

one, and the chance--if it is not a crime against Providence to speak

of chance in such important matters----"

"For heaven's sake, aunt, if you love me, say no more," exclaimed Elsa.

The terror that seized her at the idea of hearing her aunt speak of

Count Golm, after Ottomar had already alarmed her in the morning on the

same subject, was too evident in the tone of her voice to escape even

Sidonie.

"Good gracious!" she said, "can I really have been mistaken! I had been

thinking over the extraordinary dispute which we had this morning, and

could only account for it by the explanation that you wished to conceal

the inclination you have for the Count by an affectation of

indifference, and even of want of consideration towards him."

"I did not intend anything of the kind," said Elsa.

"I am really sorry for it," said Sidonie, who now, under the pressure

of her disappointment, seated herself--though with due regard to her

brown silk gown--while Elsa walked up and down the room in some

agitation; "really very sorry; I know nothing that would have given me

greater pleasure, next to Ottomar's betrothal to Carla, which, in my

opinion, has been too long delayed. The Count is thirty--a very good

age for a man of his position to marry--he must and will marry one of

these days, and he might seek long before he would find a young lady

who would so entirely satisfy all the pretensions he has a right to

make, and no doubt does make. His circumstances are somewhat

embarrassed, but that is almost always the case nowadays with large

properties; men always settle down when they are married. Besides, he

will gain enormously by the new railroad, so Schieler says, who told me

all these particulars. The Councillor was with me yesterday, and I

almost fancied he must have come on purpose to tell me, and to hear

what I said about it, as he has always had a great regard for my

opinion. He is a charming man, and discretion itself; so I did not

hesitate to tell him exactly what I thought; in these cases openness is

always the best diplomacy, and when advances are made there is no harm

in meeting them half way."

"It is too bad, aunt!" exclaimed Elsa, turning round and standing with

her lace handkerchief crushed between her hands, while burning tears of

shame and anger started to her eyes.

Sidonie was so startled by this outburst, for which she was not in the

least prepared, that she sat motionless and speechless with wide open

eyes, while Elsa, instead of immediately begging her pardon, or calming

herself, continued with flaming cheeks and sparkling eyes: "To talk me

over like that with a stranger! and with Schieler, of all people, whom

I detest as much as I do the other whom you have chosen for me, and

whom I would never marry, not if he had a crown to lay at my feet,

never--never!"

"What is the matter, Elsa?" asked the General, who entered the room at

that moment and had heard the last words.

"A slight difference of opinion between me and my aunt," answered Elsa,

hastily wiping her eyes.

"Well, well," said the General, "I thought you ladies left that sort of

thing to us men. Is Ottomar not here?"

He left the room again to inquire after Ottomar.

"Forgive me, aunt," said Elsa, holding out her hand; "it was very wrong

of me. You do not know, but--I do not know myself, what is the matter

with me this evening."

It was with some hesitation that Sidonie took her hand; the General

came in again.

"It is too bad," he said; "Ottomar went out again quite an hour ago and

has not yet returned."

"He must be delayed by some important matter," said Sidonie.

"No doubt!" said the General, frowning, and pulling his grey

moustaches.

"Councillor Schieler!" announced August, opening the folding-doors.

The Councillor kissed Sidonie's hand and bowed low to Elsa, then turned

to the General:

"I have heaps of news for you, my dear friend."

"Few things happen now to interest me, and still fewer that give me any

pleasure," answered the General, with a courteous yet melancholy smile.

"I fear I cannot promise that my news will give you any pleasure," said

the Councillor; "but at least it is interesting even to you, ladies,

that the Baroness, instead of arriving on the 1st as she originally

intended, will arrive on the 10th, and will therefore be here in three

days."

"I had a letter this morning which said nothing about it," said the

General.

"My letter arrived this afternoon, and is, therefore, doubtless the

latest; it is not from herself, however, but----"

The Councillor was interrupted by a slight cough.

"You may say the name out, my dear friend," said the General; "it

cannot be avoided when once our meetings begin."

"You are right!" exclaimed the Councillor; "and I am happy----" The

widowed Countess von Fischbach arrived at this moment with her two

daughters; the ladies were engaged with their guests, and the

Councillor was able to draw the General aside. "I was about to say that

I am happy to find you so well prepared for what awaits you from

Munich. I know how painful everything connected with the subject is to

you, and yet I must ask your patience for a few minutes before you are

called away by your other guests. My second piece of news is that the

concession is granted."

"Impossible!" exclaimed the General.

"As good as granted."

"We had a meeting only this morning; it is true we were engaged upon

other matters, but his Excellency would at least----"

"He knows your dislike to the project; I repeat, as good as granted,

and that 'as good' is at the present moment better than good. I implore

you, my honoured friend, to listen to me patiently; the matter is of

the greatest importance, not only to me, who have only an indirect

interest in it, but more especially and directly to you. The concession

will of course only have been granted for a harbour on the north,

against which you have no immediate objection; is not that true? Good.

Now I know for certain that, behind your back, there was to the very

last moment a hesitation between the North and the East Harbour, and

that the pressure used has only just failed in turning the scale to the

East. I need not tell you by whom pressure was put; you know better

than any one the interest that Golm, who by the way will join the

management, has in the existence of the railroad; and his connections

in a certain region are better, very much better than I could have

dreamt of. I tell you it only wanted the merest trifle. And just

imagine, Signor Giraldi--I must mention his name now--has written to me

to-day that the sale of part of the property appears to him advisable

for the better regulation and easier administration of the rest; and

that the Baroness--that is to say he--for here as everywhere he is the

mouthpiece of the Baroness--will propose the sale at our meeting.

Wallbach is in favour of it as he always has been; as a man of business

I cannot oppose it; in short, the property will, as far as I can see,

be sold. It is almost impossible, or at least most improbable, that

Giraldi should know the state of affairs here, and that an eager

purchaser is ready to hand in Golm. But if Golm sees a possibility of

concluding the bargain, he will move heaven and hell to carry through

the East Harbour at the last minute. And now, my honoured, my excellent

friend, allow an old friend, of whose devotion you are aware, one word

in confidence--a bold one if you will: you are not rich; Ottomar is

extravagant; it is no small matter for Ottomar to see his portion with

one stroke doubled if not quadrupled in value with the rest, and

Fräulein Elsa will be richer in the same proportion; and if at the

death of the Baroness they inherit the remaining half, and Fräulein

Elsa makes a suitable marriage--with Count Golm for instance, to name

the first that occurs to me--you may close your eyes--God in His

providence grant not for many a long day--with the comforting

reflection that the external well-being of your family is secured for

all futurity, so far as man's foresight can determine. Be wise then, my

honoured friend. You need do nothing. You have only to refrain from

opposition and give in to what you cannot prevent. Lastly, you must

remember the good old saying: 'Well to endure what cannot well be

cured;' which you will doubtless remember in your youth."

The General had listened without a sign of the impatience that was

usual with him when an adverse opinion was put before him; his brow had

not clouded; there was even an unusually gentle, almost sad, tone in

his deep voice, as he now, without raising his eyes, said, as if to

himself: "I remember the saying well. It dates from the time of the

wars, of liberation, and many an oppressed heart derived comfort from

it in those troubled times, and many a broken courage has been

supported by it. It hung framed and glazed on the wall of my father's

best room; I can still see my dear mother standing before it and

reading what she had read a thousand times before:

"'To triumph not in joy nor dread the storm,

Well to endure what cannot well be cured,

To do good actions and rejoice in beauty,

To love our lives and not to fear death,

Firmly to trust in God and a better future,

This is to live, yet rob death of his sting.'"

The General looked thoughtfully before him. What an inconveniently

retentive memory the man has! thought the Councillor.

"And look, my dear friend," continued the General--and his eyes now

rested so steadily on the Councillor that the latter, in spite of all

his efforts, was forced to turn away his own--"according to the true

meaning of the proverb and my own feelings it would not be doing a good

action. Indeed, according to my own feelings I could no longer live,

and should with justice shrink with terror from death, like a

dishonoured coward, if, for the sake of outward advantage, were it a

thousand times as great as it here appears to be, I neglected my

positive duty and obligation, and did not resist, by every means in my

power, a project the accomplishment of which I am firmly persuaded

would be a manifest injury to our military strength, and an

unprincipled squandering of our means, which we have the strongest

reasons to be careful of. I have already nearly neglected my duty when

I threw the burden of the report of this odious affair on Sattelstädt's

shoulders; although I knew that his opinions were the same as my own.

After what I have just heard from you, I cannot do otherwise than bring

forward the subject on my own responsibility at the board, and in any

case acquaint the Minister with my disapproval. And now, my dear

friend, excuse me! I must help the ladies to do the honours."

He turned towards the large drawing-room; the Councillor looked angrily

after him.

"He is incorrigible. I almost wonder he did not turn me out of the

house. That will be the next thing. Do not fatigue yourself so much,

Count. It is of no use."

CHAPTER VII.

The Count had entered a few minutes before, in his deputy's uniform,

with the Cross of St. John. The room was by this time nearly full, and

he had had some difficulty in making his way to the ladies of the

house. Elsa had not helped him in his efforts; at the moment that he

appeared in the doorway she continued so eagerly the conversation

already begun with Captain von Schönau, that the Count, after bowing to

Sidonie, had stood for half a minute behind her without attracting her

attention, till Schönau at last felt bound with "I think" and a

movement of the hand to draw her notice to the newly-arrived guest.

"I am happy--" said the Count.

"Ah! Count Golm!" exclaimed Elsa, with well-acted astonishment. "I beg

your pardon for not having seen you sooner, I was so absorbed. May I

introduce you? Captain von Schönau, on the staff--a great friend of

ours--Count von Golm. Have you seen papa, Count Golm? I think he is in

the other room. You were saying, Captain von Schönau----"

The Count stepped back with a bow.

"That was rather strong, Fräulein Elsa," said Schönau.

"What?"

Schönau laughed.

"Do you know that if I were not the most modest of men I might imagine

all possible and impossible follies?"

"How so?"

"Why, did not you see that the Count held out his hand, and drew back

with a face as red as my collar? A young lady with such sharp eyes as

Fräulein Elsa von Werben could only overlook such a thing if she did

not wish to see it; which can hardly be the case here, or if she--I am

afraid to go on.--Who is that?"

"Who?"

"That officer--to the left, near Baroness Kniebreche--you are looking

to the right! He is speaking to your father now--a fine-looking man--he

has got the cross, too. Where did you meet with him?"

Elsa was forced to make up her mind to see Reinhold, though her heart

beat fast, to her great annoyance. She was vexed already at having laid

herself open to Schönau's sharp-sighted eyes, and almost betrayed

herself to him by her behaviour to the Count. It should not happen

again.

"A Herr Schmidt," she said, arranging the rosebuds in her hair--"a

merchant-captain. We made his acquaintance when we were travelling.

Papa likes him very much."

"A very fine-looking man," repeated Schönau; "just the sort of

handsome, manly face that I admire; and a very good manner, too, though

one recognises the officer of the reserve at the first glance."

"In what way?" asked Elsa, whose heart began to beat again.

"You ought to know that as well or better than I do, as you see more of

the Guards. Compare him with Ottomar, who is late as usual, and is

trying to repair his faults by making himself doubly agreeable! Look at

the finished courtesy with which he kisses old Countess Kniebreche's

bony hand, and now turns and makes a bow to Countess Fischbach, for

which the great Vestris might have envied him--_Allons, mon fils,

montrez votre talent_; and how he speaks now to Sattelstädt, not a

shade too much or too little. It is really unfair to compare one of the

reserve with the model of all knightly graces! Do not you agree with

me?"

Elsa only looked straight before her. Schönau was right; there was a

difference. She had liked him better as he walked up and down the deck

in his rough pilot jacket. She had envied him the firmness and freedom

of his movements. And when later he sat in the boat and steered it as

calmly as a rider governs his fiery steed, then he had appeared to her

as the model of a brave man conscious of his strength. If only he had

not come now, just now!

At that moment Reinhold, who had all this time been talking to her

father, and was now dismissed with a friendly nod, turned, and seeing

Elsa, came straight towards her. Elsa trembled so violently that she

was obliged to support herself by laying her hand on the back of a

chair; she wished to act a little comedy before the quick-witted

Schönau, and to appear perfectly cool and unconcerned; but as he now

stepped towards her, his bright, honest eyes still beaming at the

recollection of her father's kind reception of him, in the open, manly

features a certain embarrassment, which seemed to ask, 'Shall I be

welcome to you also?' her heart leaped up warmly and generously; and

though one hand still rested on the chair, she held out the other

towards him. Her dark eyes glowed, her red lips smiled, and she said:

"Welcome to our house, my dear Herr Schmidt!" as cheerfully and frankly

as if there were no finer name in the world.

He seized her hand and said a few words which she only half heard. She

turned towards Schönau, the Captain had vanished; the colour mounted

into her cheeks.

"It does not matter," she murmured.

"What does not matter?"

"I will tell you by-and-by if-- We are going to dance a little after

supper. I do not know----"

"Whether I dance! I am very fond of it."

"Even the Rheinländer?"

"Even the Rheinländer. And notwithstanding your incredulous smile, not

so badly that Fräulein von Werben need be afraid to give me the

honour."

"The Rheinländer then! I have already promised all the others. Now I

must go and entertain the company." She nodded kindly to him and turned

away, but came back immediately. "Do you like my brother?"

"Very much."

"I wish so much that you should be friends. Do try to see more of him.

Will you?"

"With all my heart."

She was now obliged to go; and Reinhold also mixed with the rest of the

company, without any of the embarrassment that he had felt on first

entering a circle so brilliant and so strange to him. His hosts had

received him as a dear friend of the house. Even the eyes of the

dignified aunt had glanced at him not without a certain good-natured

curiosity, stately as her curtsey had been; but the General had shaken

him warmly by the hand, and after the first words of greeting, drawing

him confidentially aside, had said: "I must introduce you to Colonel

von Sattelstädt and Captain von Schönau, both on the staff. They are

anxious to hear your opinion on the Harbour question. Pray speak your

mind quite freely. You will be doing me a favour. I shall also have a

special favour to ask of you with regard to this affair, which I will

tell you later. Au revoir, then."

That was flattering to the lieutenant of the reserve, said Reinhold to

himself as he turned towards Elsa; and now she, too, had been so kind

and friendly. He felt like one of Homer's heroes, who in silence hopes

that the goddess to whom he prays will be gracious to him, and to whom

the divinity appears in the tumult of battle and looks at him with her

immortal eyes, and in words which only he can hear, promises him her

assistance. What mattered to him now that old Baroness Kniebreche's

gold eye-glass was so long fixed upon him with such a disagreeable

stare, and then let fall with a movement that plainly said: It was

hardly worth the trouble! What mattered to him that Count Golm avoided

seeing him as long as he could possibly do so, and, when it was no

longer possible, walked past him with a snappish "Ah, Captain!

delighted to see you!" That young Prince Clemda's bow when they were

introduced might have been somewhat less careless. What did it all

signify? And those were the only marks of coldness which had been shown

him during the hour that he had already passed in the somewhat numerous

assembly. He had met with scarcely anything but good-natured, open

friendliness on the part of the ladies, and almost all the men, who

were mostly officers, cordially received him as one of themselves.

Even Prince Clemda seemed inclined to make up for his previous

carelessness by suddenly coming up to him and murmuring a few

sentences, amongst which Reinhold only distinguished clearly the words:

Werben--Orleans--Vierzon--confounded ride--sorry.

But what pleased him most was his acquaintance with Herr von

Sattelstädt and Herr von Schönau. They came up to him almost at the

same moment, and begged him, if it was not troubling him too much, to

give them his views on the practicability and utility of a harbour to

the north of Wissow Head. "We are both well acquainted with the

locality," said the Colonel, "and are both--the Captain even more than

myself--opposed to the project; we have of course discussed the matter

often at the Admiralty, but none the less, or rather all the more, it

would be of the greatest interest and importance to us to hear the

opinion of an intelligent sailor, who, while thoroughly well acquainted

with the circumstances of the case, is at the same time quite

unprejudiced, more especially when he possesses at the same time the

soldierly eye of a campaigner. Let us sit down in the study here--there

is another chair, Schönau! And now I think it would be best if you

would allow us to ask you a few questions. It is the easiest and surest

way of arriving at our object. We will not trouble you long."

"I am quite at your orders," said Reinhold.

The gentlemen intended only to take a discreet advantage of the

permission; but as Reinhold, against his will, was obliged frequently

to enter into details, in order to answer the questions put to him, the

conversation prolonged itself further than either of them had intended,

though no one seemed aware of it but himself. Flattering though the

respectful attention might be with which the two officers listened to

his explanations, and sincerely as he admired the sagacity and

knowledge displayed by every question, by every word they said--he

could not refrain from casting from time to time a longing glance

through the door of the study into the larger drawing-room, where the

company were still circulating as before, and through the drawing-room

into the second small room on the other side of the drawing-room, in

which apparently a group of young people had assembled, amongst whom he

perceived Ottomar and the lady who had been pointed out to him at the

Exhibition as Fräulein von Wallbach, Count Golm, and finally Elsa.

A lively dispute was going on, as could be heard right across the

intervening drawing-room, though naturally the actual words could not

be distinguished. Even Schönau's attention was at length caught by it.

"I would bet anything," he said, "that they are quarrelling over

Wagner; where Fräulein von Wallbach presides, Wagner is sure to be the

subject of discussion. I would give anything to hear what she says

about him this evening."

"That is to say, my dear Schönau, if I am not mistaken, I would give

anything if Sattelstädt would hold his tongue," said the Colonel,

smiling. "Well, we have already taken an unconscionable advantage of

Captain Schmidt's patience."

He rose and held out his hand to Reinhold. Schönau protested that he

meant nothing of the kind; the Colonel shook his finger threateningly

at him. "For shame, Schönau, to deny your liege lady! She, you must

know, Captain Schmidt, is Divine Harmony. For her he would go through

fire and water, and let the harbour matters take care of themselves. Be

off, Schönau!"

Schönau laughed, but went, taking with him Reinhold, who followed not

unwillingly, as he was thus enabled to return to Elsa and to Ottomar,

to whom he had only spoken in passing.

CHAPTER VIII.

Ottomar had been fully occupied in making up for lost time. He went

from one to the other, here whispering a compliment, there accompanying

a shake of the hand with a jest, this evening more than ever

overflowing with life and spirits and good-humour, the accomplished

favourite of the Graces, and king of society. So said Baroness

Kniebreche to Carla, who had just appeared in the drawing-room, with

her brother and sister-in-law, and was immediately taken possession of

by the old lady, one of whose "_mignons_" she was. "Look, my dear

Carla! he is just speaking to Helene Leisewitz--how happy the poor

thing is! It is not often that she is so singled out. Mon Dieu! he is

positively paying attentions to her. Do look!"

Carla was in despair. She could see nothing without her eye-glass, but

did not like to make use of it while with the Baroness whose pince-nez,

with glasses as big as thalers, were fixed to her almost sightless

eyes. Besides the old lady screamed so loud that she might be heard

half across the room, and she expected to be answered equally loudly,

being quite deaf of the right ear and almost deaf of the left.

"Ah! at last he has fluttered off to Emilie Fischbach--_à la bonne

heure!_ She has been making eyes at him for ever so long, charming

little creature! She really grows more charming every day. And how she

chatters and wriggles. A little too much simplicity, but she will

improve. You will have another rival next season, my dear Carla. What,

going already! No, no, my dear, not so fast; I have not spoken to you

for ages. You owe me a world of confidences. Do you think that an old

woman like me is to go about in society as ignorant as a new-born baby,

while the whole world is _au courant_? Out with it! When is the

betrothal to be? Not speak so loud? Why I am hardly speaking above a

whisper--this ear, please! It is not yet settled! Don't be angry with

me, my dear Carla; but what in the world are you thinking about? Do you

imagine an Ottomar von Werben is always to be had?"

"Do you want me, Baroness?" said Ottomar, who had heard his name.

"I want you to sit down by me here, on my left side, you faithless

butterfly!"

"Is there such a thing as a faithful butterfly, Baroness?"

"Now none of your jokes; I am a serious, practical old woman, and want

you both--why what has become of Carla?"

Carla had seized the opportunity, and, rising with an expression of

delighted astonishment on her animated countenance, had hastened

towards Count Golm, whom, by a hasty glance through her eye-glass, she

had perceived at the other side of the room engaged in conversation

with Countess Fischbach, and who now turned towards her. She was

determined to punish Ottomar for the neglect with which he had in the

most open manner treated her. Ottomar looked after her with gloomy

eyes, and his glance did not clear while the old Baroness took him to

task, as she expressed it. "Yes, yes, my dear Ottomar, it is only the

truth; and from whom should you hear it if not from an old woman, who

knows the world thoroughly and has known you ever since you were born?

I have seen other affairs come to nothing that looked quite as

promising as yours. Everything has its limits, even the patience of

society. If this patience is tried too long, society says nothing will

come of it; and when society has said so for a certain length of time

nothing does come of it, simply because it has said so. People do

everything as society decides; are betrothed, marry, separate, fall in

love, fall out of it again, fall in love a second and a third time,

fight duels, shoot their friends, shoot themselves--society is always

right."

"And supposing society should be right in our case?"

The old lady let her pince-nez fall in horror: "_Mais vous êtes fou,

monsieur, positivement fou!_"

She seized her large black fan, and fanned herself violently and

noisily; replaced her pince-nez, cast a sharp glance at Ottomar, who

stared moodily before him, and said, while she motioned to him to put

his ear near her mouth--

"Now listen patiently, like a good child, for you are children, both of

you; you who sit here looking like an ensign who has had twenty marks

too few at his examination for lieutenant; and Carla who is flirting

over there with Count Golm, on purpose to provoke you. Don't play with

fire. You might burn your fingers badly. If the affair comes to nothing

it will be the greatest scandal of the season. And now go and make your

peace with Carla, and tell her from me that I have known the Counts

Golm for three generations, and that the present one--well, I had

rather tell her myself."

She rapped Ottomar on the knuckles with her fan. Ottomar rose quickly

and moved a few paces towards Carla, in the full conviction that his

approach was all that was necessary to appease her, as she had watched

the whole progress of his conversation with the old lady, and now

turned her eye-glass on him. But Carla let him come a few steps nearer

and then turned completely round towards the Count, with the defiant

movement of an actress who wishes to give the audience an opportunity

of admiring the back of her dress. Ottomar started back and turned on

his heel, murmuring between his teeth: "A formal provocation! Thank

heaven!"

But when he now again mixed with the company, laughing and jesting even

more gaily than before, in his heart was dark night. What the Baroness

had murmured in his ear he had said to himself over and over again as

he hastened home through the Thiergarten, and the mighty trees over his

head could as little overpower with their sighings and groanings the

warning voice within him, as the hum and rustle of the company could

now overpower the harsh voice of the toothless old lady. Was she only

the mouth-piece of society? So, exactly so, would and must society

speak, perhaps did speak already, though he could not hear. Let it!

What did society know of the tall, slender figure which he had but now

held in his arms, of the throbbing heart that had rested on his breast,

of the wealth of kisses that still burned on his lips? If the four

charming girls with whom he was talking could combine all their charms

into one, they would still not make a Ferdinanda. And as for Carla, he

had never admired her as much as the rest of the world did, and now he

thought her positively ugly, with her coquettish airs, her eternal

laugh and her everlasting eye-glass. Let her marry the Count; let them

say and do what they would! And what could they do? A duel with

Wallbach? Well, it would be the fourth within four years, and if he

were killed, so much the better! There would be an end to the whole

affair; he need no longer trouble his head with his debts, or his heart

about the women! Debts, women--he would have done with them all!

"Oh, Herr von Werben! how intensely amusing you are this evening!"

"I feel intensely amusing, I assure you."

"I don't wonder, under the circumstances."

"Of course not!"

"Then do us a favour."

"A thousand."

"Do bring us your brother officer from the reserve; what is his name?"

"Schmidt!"

"Really?"

"Really!"

"How funny!"

"Why?"

"How cross you look! It is not our fault. Emilie Fischbach says he is

quite delightful! We want to know the delightful Herr Schmidt. Do

please bring Herr Schmidt here!"

"Oh, do!" exclaimed the other young ladies, "bring Herr Schmidt here!"

"I fly."

The titter of the girls, which was not ill-meant, sounded after him

like an intentional scoff. His cheeks burnt with anger and shame; that

name--it was hers also.

"One word, Werben."

Clemda touched him on the shoulder.

"What do you want?"

"I have had a letter from Brussels, from the Duke, and also one from

Antonia. The Duke is now free. Our wedding is to be in four weeks.

Antonia is very anxious that your betrothed should be one of her

bridesmaids. You must of course take me under your wing; I dare not

write and tell her that you are not yet betrothed. You are not angry

with me for the hint?"

"Why should I be?"

"Because you look so serious over it. Where are you off to in such a

hurry?"

"The ladies want me to take Lieutenant Schmidt to them."

"Ah! not a bad fellow--in his way!"

Clemda had let the last words slip out carelessly after the others--as

one might open a chink of a door one had just shut, in order to let the

dog in, thought Ottomar.

"And what I wanted to say besides, Ottomar--of course, as host, one has

certain duties, but then certain duties are owed to the host also; and

entre nous, I consider Golm's flirtation as rather a want of

consideration towards you, as he must know your situation with regard

to Fräulein Wallbach as well as anybody."

"He is quite a stranger in our circle."

"Then you should explain matters to him; and Golm----"

"My dear Werben! can you spare me a moment?"

"At your orders, Colonel!"

"Ah!" said Clemda, retiring with a bow before his commanding officer.

"Only a moment," repeated Colonel von Bohl, drawing Ottomar a little on

one side; "I have just been speaking to Wallbach; he was very pressing,

but, with the best will in the world, I cannot give you leave before

the spring. Clemda will want a long leave; Rossow must be away at least

three months, as his wound threatens to break out again. I cannot spare

all my best officers at once. His Excellency must understand that."

"But there is no hurry, Colonel."

"You want to marry, and I am not devoted to newly-married young

officers; I grant you willingly, therefore, a year's leave for

diplomatic service in St. Petersburg. And then, my dear Werben----"

The Colonel cast a glance behind him and said in a lower voice:

"I should not be sorry if you could find some excuse for a short

absence,"--the Colonel made a significant gesture; "those matters might

be better and easier arranged from St. Petersburg than here--believe

me, my dear Werben!"

"But everything is arranged, Colonel; since this morning."

"Everything?"

The Colonel looked Ottomar full in the face.

"All but a trifling matter----"

"I should like even that trifling matter to be got over. His Majesty

is very particularly sensitive on those matters just now, and with

reason. Now, my dear Werben, we have all been young once, and you

know my feelings towards you. I speak for your own sake, and may tell

you in confidence that Wallbach, if not exactly prepared for any

sacrifice--that would be saying too much--is ready to help you as far

as he can in making any arrangement. You understand!"

The Colonel held out his hand, and turned quickly away to put an end to

the interview. He had in the kindest and friendliest manner said his

last word, his ultimatum. Ottomar had quite understood. The blood ran

hot and cold through his veins; his temples throbbed violently.

He stopped a servant who was passing with a tray, tossed down several

glasses of wine and then laughed, as one of his brother officers called

out to him: "Leave a little for me!"

"Do you find it so hot too?"

"Tolerably! But I believe we are going to dance."

"After supper; I don't know why it is so late. I will ask my sister."

"She is in that room."

Ottomar plunged into the room, into the midst of a circle which had

grouped itself round Carla. An extraordinary feeling of perversity came

over him. In this little room almost all his most decisive meetings

with Carla had taken place; here it was the custom, when the company

was smaller, to withdraw in order to talk more at ease; and here were

now gathered together all his most intimate friends: a few of his

favourite brother officers--Wartenberg, Tettritz--only Schönau was

absent--a few of Elsa's particular friends, Elsa herself, even old

Baroness Kniebreche had made her appearance, as she always did wherever

she expected an interesting conversation, and, preventing Carla from

rising off the small, blue silk sofa, had sunk into an armchair, in

which, leaning forward, with her hand to her left ear, she listened

eagerly to Carla's words. The only one of the party who was a stranger,

as Ottomar himself had said a few minutes before to Clemda, was Count

Golm; and this stranger stood, with one hand on the back of the small

sofa, close to Carla, where he himself ought to have been standing,

instead of remaining in the doorway, without the possibility of

advancing a step farther into the crowded room, and not daring either

to withdraw, after Baroness Kniebreche, turning her pince-nez angrily

on him, had exclaimed: "There you are at last, when our dear Carla has

been enchanting us with her clever talk--yes, yes, my dear Carla,

positively enchanting us. Let your brother stand, Elsa; he has richly

deserved it. For heaven's sake go on, my dear Carla!"

Carla had hastily glanced towards the door through her eye-glass. "I

cannot say any more without repeating what I have said already."

"Then repeat it!" exclaimed the Baroness. "One cannot hear often enough

that Wagner is the master of all masters who have ever lived or ever

will live."

"I did not say that, Baroness," said Carla, laying her hand on the old

lady's; "only of those who have lived! It is not for nothing that the

master calls his music that of the future; and the future is so called

because it is yet to come. But who can venture to predict what will

come?"

"Is it not magnificent?" exclaimed the old lady--"positively

magnificent?"

"For," continued Carla, "deep as is my admiration for the master, I

cannot conceal from myself, though with some trembling--only too

natural in face of such incomparable greatness--that the mystical

connection between word and sound--the Eleusinian mystery--proclaimed

by the master, though only to the initiated, produces a deeper, more

heart-felt satisfaction, in which the last remains of that barbarous

separation which has hitherto existed between poetry and music entirely

and for ever disappear."

"Positively stupendous!" exclaimed the Baroness.

"Magnificent!" growled Lieutenant von Tettritz.

"But Wagner himself allows that," said Von Wartenberg.

"And that speaks in my favour," answered Carla. "When we see how this

splendid genius goes further and deeper with every work, how he

advances with giant strides from 'Rienzi' and the 'Fliegende Holländer'

to 'Tannhäuser' and 'Lohengrin;' from these to the 'Meistersinger;'

from the 'Meistersinger' to 'Tristan and Isolde,' which I have only

glanced at as yet, and now to what the 'Ring des Nibelungen' is to

bring us--can we, dare we say, in opposition to the most modest of men,

who looks upon every height that he has reached as only the stepping

stone to a greater one, that with the 'Ring' the ring is closed?

Impossible! 'Art,' says Goethe, who, if he understood nothing of music,

always deserves to be listened to on the universal principles of

æsthetics--'Art has never been possessed by one man alone;' and,

god-like though he is, we must still look upon the master as a man."

"I must kiss you--I positively must kiss you!" exclaimed the Baroness.

"What do you say to it, Count Golm--what do you say to it?"

"I bow my head in admiration and--silence," answered the Count, laying

his hand on his heart.

"And you, Ottomar?" exclaimed the Baroness, turning in her chair

with almost girlish activity, and fixing her pince-nez like a

double-barrelled pistol on him.

"I consider Wagnerism, from beginning to end, to be an abominable

humbug!" answered Ottomar defiantly.

The company were horror-struck. "Good heavens!" "Unheard of!"

"Abominable!" "Positive blasphemy!" was heard on all sides.

"What did he say?" asked the old lady, her hand to her ear, bending

towards Carla.

Carla shrugged her shoulders. "You really cannot expect me to repeat

Herr von Werben's words. Baroness?"

"Which Ottomar did not mean seriously," said Elsa, with an imploring

look at her brother, which Ottomar answered by a shrug of the

shoulders.

"I thought myself bound," he said, "as the Baroness did me the honour

to appeal directly to me, to give my opinion, though it can be of no

importance in this 'noble circle.'" He emphasised scornfully the last

words.

"Humbug!" exclaimed the old lady, who, while the others were all

talking at once, had made Herr von Tettritz repeat the fearful word in

her ear. "It is too bad! You must withdraw it!--you must positively

withdraw it! Do you hear, Ottomar?"

"Perfectly, Baroness," answered Ottomar; "but I am unfortunately unable

to comply with your command."

"It is an insult--a positive insult!" exclaimed the Baroness, waving

her enormous fan violently up and down--"to us all, to Carla in

particular--on my honour, my dear Carla!"

Carla appeared not to hear; she was leaning back on the sofa, and

laughing with Count Golm, who, leaning on his elbow, bent low over her.

Elsa was greatly disturbed. She knew that her brother did not in the

least care about music, and that under any other circumstances he would

have put an end to the disagreeable scene with one of the light jests

that came so easily to him; and that if he did not do so now--if, as

was evident from his gloomy countenance, he was determined to continue

it, he could only have one reason for doing so--the wish to bring about

a crisis, to break with Carla irrevocably and for ever, in the presence

of their friends! She did not wish for the marriage; she had spoken

eagerly against it that very day; had opened her anxious heart to her

brother. But Carla had not deserved this; she was only behaving today

as she always did, and her laughter at this moment was doubtless

forced. What could she say or do?

"Will you at least honour me with an answer?" exclaimed the angry old

lady, half rising from her chair.

"Let me answer for him, Baroness?" said a voice.

Elsa almost exclaimed in joyful astonishment. It was Schönau, who,

laying his hand on Ottomar's shoulder, stepped into the doorway. Behind

them she saw another bearded countenance, whose large, honest eyes

rapidly surveyed the group, and finally rested on her. He could do no

good here; but his very presence was a comfort, while Schönau's wits

would bring help.

Half a dozen voices at once made him acquainted with the crime Ottomar

had committed.

"Now, Werben, Werben!" said Schönau, shaking his head at him. "How

could you let your rash daring lead you into such danger, even if you

were as much at home in logic as you are on horseback? But to confuse

cause with effect--to call Bark giddiness because it produces

giddiness, singing in the ears, and headache, is really unheard of!"

"You hear him!" exclaimed the old lady triumphantly, having only caught

the last words. "Unheard of--positively unheard of! Get up, Tettritz;

let Schönau sit down here. Go on, Schönau. Wagner is the greatest

musician--eh?"

"And the greatest dramatist also," said Schönau, taking the place

willingly left free for him by the Baroness.

"Go on, go on!" exclaimed the Barones, tapping Schönau on the hand with

her fan.

"Undoubtedly," continued Schönau, with a smile, "it is the mission of

every poet to hold a looking-glass to nature; but with a difference.

'_J'ai vu les mœurs de mon temps, et j'ai publié ces lettres_,'

wrote Rousseau in the preface to his 'Nouvelle Héloise;' that may

suffice for the novelist, the poet's half-brother, as Schiller calls

him. We must be content if he presents to us good photographs of

reality--instantaneous pictures; and more than content if these

photographs come out stereoscopically, and appear almost like

life--almost. For only the dramatist fulfils, and can fulfil, his

mission in earnest, his aim having been from the first, and being

still, to leave the impress of his style on the age and on the material

world. The first thing necessary for this, however, is Shakespeare's

golden rule--'Be not too tame.' And it is just because Wagner is not

too tame--because he has the courage, which his enemies call audacity,

to allow the salient points in the character of his age to appear, to

allow the excrescences to grow out of the material world--it is this

which raises him so far above his rivals in the estimation of all who

have ears to hear and eyes to see."

"I should like to kiss you!" exclaimed the Baroness. "Go on, my dear

Schönau--go on!"

Schönau bowed.

"What are, however, the salient points of our age? Ask our

philosophers--Schopenhauer, Hartmann----"

"This will please you, Carla!" exclaimed the Baroness.

"They will answer, the deep conviction of the insufficiency,

wretchedness, misery--let me say the word--worthlessness of this our

earthly life; and combined with this, the conscious-unconscious longing

after the Nirvana, the sweet Nothing--the beginning and foundation of

things, which appears to our troubled nature as the only deliverance

and last haven of refuge from the desolation and error of this life,

and to which we should undoubtedly fly were it not for our will--our

gigantic, invincible, indestructible will--that cares for nothing more

than to live, to enjoy, to drink down the foaming cup of life, of love,

to its last bitter drops. Renunciation there, enjoyment here, both to

overflowing; because each is aware of the other, each hates the other,

like the hostile brothers. And in this constantly renewed contest

between irreconcilable contradictions; in this sensation of being

torn backwards and forwards in the wildest confusion, the maddest

tumult, the most entangled whirl; in this witches' Sabbath, this

will-o'-the-wisp dance, and this halo of falling stars of modern

humanity, hurrying from hell to heaven, from heaven to hell, raging and

vanishing into mist; in this everything, and something more, turned

into endless sing-song and eternal clang--the most horrible Past

painted into a rosy-red caricature of the Present, while the eyes of a

spectral Future stare from the empty sockets--the flute-notes of soft

enjoyment, the violin-tones of fading bliss, drowned by the crashing

cymbals and the shrill sound of the trumpets--here you have the

'Venusberg' and the 'Penitent,' the 'Wedding-night' and 'Monsalvat,'

the chronic sorrows of love and the magic drink from a prescription;

here you have, taking it all in all, him whose like has never been

seen, and never will be seen--here you have Richard Wagner! And now,

Baroness and ladies, allow me to withdraw before the enchanted silence

into which I have lulled you breaks into words, which might hurt my

modesty, though not that of nature."

Schönau kissed Baroness Kniebreche's hand and disappeared, taking

Ottomar with him. A few laughed, others cried "Treachery." The Baroness

exclaimed:

"I don't know what you mean; he is quite right!"

Lieutenant von Tettritz, who, as an enthusiastic Wagnerite, felt

himself seriously offended, and was considering whether he ought not to

call out Schönau for this insult, tried to explain to her that the

Captain had mystified and laughed at her in the most outrageous manner.

"Without my finding it out!" exclaimed the old lady. "You must not say

that, my dear child; old Kniebreche knows better than that when she is

laughed at, I can assure you."

CHAPTER IX.

Fortunately at this moment supper was announced; it was served from a

buffet which had been prepared in the hitherto closed room, on two

small tables which had in the meantime been laid.

"Are you not yet engaged?" asked Elsa of Reinhold as she passed him;

"make haste, then; Fräulein Emilie von Fischbach is waiting for you;

she is indeed, though you look so astonished! It is all settled; she is

standing near the looking-glass with Fräulein von Rossow whom Schönau

has engaged. I do not intend to engage myself--I shall follow you

in--we are going to sit at the small round table in the window! Now

make haste, for fear anybody should get there before us." Reinhold

hastened to fulfil so agreeable a command; Elsa stopped Ottomar, who

was passing her. "Do, dear Ottomar, take Carla in to supper; I am sure

she is waiting for you. You really have got a fault to make up for."

"Which I shall not do by committing another."

"I do not understand you; but you owe something to her and to us all."

"I shall never be able to pay all my debts. Well, to please

you--there!" and he glanced at Carla, who just then passed on Golm's

arm to the nearest table; "you see how she has waited for me!"

"Paula!" exclaimed Elsa to a young lady, "my brother is anxious to take

you in to supper, but does not dare ask you because you refused him the

other day. At that table!--Prince Clemda, at that table, please, near

Count Golm and Ottomar--there are just four places empty--every seat

must be occupied."

"At your orders," said Clemda; "_allons_, Werben!"

Ottomar, with the lady on his arm, still stood undecided.

"Will a Werben allow a Golm to say that he left the field clear for

him?" whispered Elsa in his ear.

She regretted the words as soon as they were spoken: how could any

cause prosper that was fed from the spring of injured vanity? But

Ottomar had already led away her friend, and it was high time for her

also to take her place. She was too late already. She had hoped that

Reinhold would sit by her; but room must be made for another couple who

had been wandering from table to table, and the whole arrangement was

thus disturbed. Still he was opposite to her, and she had the

satisfaction of seeing him--of noticing his eyes so often, it could

hardly be unintentionally, turned towards her--if only for a moment; of

hearing his hearty laugh, which had so enchanted Meta, and which she

herself, as she secretly acknowledged, found so enchanting; the calm

clearness of his words when he joined in the conversation, the modest

silence with which he readily allowed the witty Schönau to take the

lead in the conversation. The latter, now that he thought it worth his

while, spoke his real opinion of Wagner and Wagnerism, and explained

how he saw in Wagner, not the prophet of the future, but, on the

contrary, the last exponent of a great past; how the mixing and

mingling of arts, which Wagner held up as their highest development,

had everywhere and at all times prepared and accompanied their

downfall; how the blind fanaticism of his supporters, and the

tyrannical intolerance with which they cried down every opposite

opinion, was for him not a proof of their strength, but, on the

contrary, of their weakness, the overpowering consciousness of which

they sought to drown in this manner; and how, to his eyes, the only

comfort to be derived from the whole affair was that the despotism

usurped by the Wagnerites hung on one life only, namely, that of the

master himself, and that his empire must fall into ruins as soon as he

abandoned the scene, because his so-called theory did not rest on true

principles of art, did not result necessarily from the essence of art,

but was nothing more than the abstraction of his own highly-gifted,

energetic but capricious and exceptional nature, of which it might

truly be said that its like would hardly be seen again.

"Believe me, my friends, to his helpless disciples Mephistopheles'

saying will be carried out; they will have the parts in their hands,

but the spiritual bond that united them will be gone for ever."

Schönau had addressed his words chiefly to Elsa, but Elsa's thoughts

were wandering, and yet she generally listened to him with so much

pleasure; and he was talking to-day even better than usual, with a

certain passion which was very striking in the usually quiet, reserved

man. Her friends had often teased her about Captain Schönau, and she

had never denied that she liked him; and now, while he was speaking,

and her eyes wandered from him to Reinhold and back again, and she

compared, almost against her will, these two men who were so unlike one

another, she asked herself how it could be that one should like one man

so much and yet like another a great deal better, even though the

former had undoubtedly far more brilliant ideas beneath his broad,

sharply-chiselled brow, than the other who listened to him with such

respectful attention; besides, how curious it was, that while the one

had for years frequented their house as an intimate friend, she had

never troubled herself to think whether he enjoyed himself there, while

her head was now constantly troubling itself with the question whether

the other, who was their guest for the first time to-day, had come

willingly and would wish to come again, and she rejoiced to see how

contentedly he was chatting with pretty Emilie Fischbach, and how he

now, in his open-hearted way, lifted his glass to her and drained it,

while his eyes looked so kindly and so steadily into hers. Yes, she was

happy, and would have been entirely so if the talk at the long table

near them had been somewhat less loud and excited, and if Ottomar's

voice had not several times rung out so loudly that she started in

terror, and was relieved when the sounds of laughter and the clinking

of glasses drowned his clear tones. She knew that it was always

particularly noisy and jolly at the table at which Ottomar sat.

To-day more than ever. "A Werben will not leave the field clear for a

Golm!" The words sounded in Ottomar's ear as he sat at table by his

partner, opposite to Golm and Carla, and they re-echoed in his

passion-filled heart; and, if no one else remarked it, to Carla there

was a tone in his voice as he now plunged into the conversation already

started, in which he took and maintained the lead, as if it were a

race, thought Carla, in which he was determined to be the victor in

spite of all the efforts of his rivals. And Count Golm strove in every

imaginable way--but in vain. Ottomar was inexhaustible in his amusing

fancies, absurd jokes, and witty answers; Carla had never seen him so

brilliant.

Carla was enchanted; she knew what prize was being ridden for in this

race, and why the foremost rider took the highest hedges and the widest

ditches with such temerity, and that it was from her hands the winner

would receive the prize. Poor Golm, he did all he could, and more than

all; it was not his fault if he remained farther and farther behind,

and at length seemed inclined to turn out of the course. But that could

not be allowed; he must be cheered and encouraged, he must be allowed

to receive at least the second prize, and be persuaded that it was only

an unlucky accident that vanquished him this time, and that it was not

impossible that another time he might win the first.

But this must be done very carefully, by an encouraging smile, by a

kind, rapid glance; before the company Ottomar must be crowned; to

Ottomar she addressed herself as they rose from table, and holding out

her hand, said, loud enough to be heard by the bystanders:

"You really surpassed yourself, Herr von Werben."

"You are too kind," answered Ottomar, with so low a bow that it was

almost mocking.

The mockery was not heartfelt. He was intoxicated by his success, and

not by his success only. He had desired to forget his cares and

troubles by drowning them in wine, and he had succeeded. The dark wood,

and the beautiful girl whom a few hours back he had folded in his arms

in that dark wood, it was all a dream--a wild, confused dream which he

had dreamt, heaven only knew when; here were pleasure and mirth, and

light and brightness, whichever way he looked; and whichever way he

looked bright eyes sparkled, rosy lips laughed, white shoulders

glistened, and all sparkled, laughed, and glistened for him! Here was

his empire; here he was king; he had only to hold out his hand and the

hand of the lady most courted here would be laid in his! Was there a

to-morrow? Let it come; the present belonged to him; pleasure and mirth

for ever! Bright eyes, and rosy lips, and white shoulders for ever!

And as if all the spirits of pleasure and mirth were surrounding him,

Ottomar flew through the rooms to apologise to the elder guests, if in

the interests of the young people who wanted to dance a little they

were somewhat crowded till the supper-room could be cleared, begging

his brother officers not to waste precious time, but to engage their

partners if they had not been wise enough to do so already, giving the

young ladies the delightful information that the evening would wind up

with a cotillon, with orders to be given by the ladies, and that there

was room on his breast for more than one. And now the doors were

re-opened, from the empty room resounded the notes of a merry polka,

and----

"You will dance this with me, Carla?" exclaimed Ottomar, and without

awaiting her answer--putting his arm round her--he flew with her into

the dancing-room, followed by the other couples who had anxiously

awaited this moment.

"Are you not dancing?" asked a deep voice behind Reinhold.

Reinhold turned. "No, General."

"Do you not dance?"

"Oh yes; but you did me the honour to say you wished to speak to me. I

was just about to----"

"That is very good of you. I was coming to fetch you."

"I am at your orders, General."

"Come, then."

The General, however, did not move. The aspect of the room, which was

almost filled with dancers, appeared to interest and absorb him.

Reinhold, who had unconsciously turned in the direction in which the

General was looking, saw that the eyes of the latter were fastened on

Ottomar, who with Carla was engaged in the centre of the room in

performing the skilful evolutions demanded by the polka. A smile passed

over his grave, stern face; then, as if rousing himself from a dream,

he passed his hand over his forehead, and said again, "Come, then."

He put his arm through Reinhold's, and crossed with him the large

drawing-room in front of a group that had assembled round Baroness

Kniebreche. The Baroness suddenly stopped speaking; the round glasses

of her pince-nez seemed to flash forth angry flames at the sight of the

confidential manner of the General towards the young officer of the

reserve.

"Look away!" thought Reinhold, while his heart beat proudly, "and

heaven grant that I may prove worthy of the honour!"

They entered the small room in which a little while before Wagner had

been so warmly discussed. The room was empty.

"Sit down," said the General, taking possession of an arm-chair and

motioning to Reinhold to sit by him; "I will not keep you long."

"I am really in no hurry. General; I am only engaged once for a later

dance with your daughter."

"That is right," said the General. "Elsa is in your debt, and here am I

going to take advantage of your good-nature again. In one word, you

have spoken to Colonel Sattelstädt and to Schönau, and have given them

your decided opinion upon the matter you know of. They both say that

your explanations have put the matter in quite a new light, which they

consider most important, and which ought to decide the question in the

eyes of all who can see in our favour; that is to say, in mine and

these two gentlemen's, who unfortunately stand pretty nearly alone in

our views, and have every reason to look about us for allies. I ask you

now, in our joint names, if you will be that ally, and if you will draw

up for us a written statement of the circumstances of which we can make

unrestricted use? Schönau will willingly provide you with maps and any

other assistance you may want, if you will put yourself in

communication with him. The first question now is, will you do us this

kindness?"

"Most certainly, General, and will do it to the best of my ability."

"I felt sure you would; but I must draw your attention to one important

point. President von Sanden has told me that he has you in his mind,

and Elsa confided to me that you were not disinclined to agree to the

President's wish, and accept the situation in question. The post is not

in the gift of the Minister of War, but your report will cause ill

feeling in more than one department, and we might find ourselves

compelled to give up the name of our informant. Have you thought of

that?"

"No, General; but I have never been ashamed of my name, and, thank God,

have never had reason to be. From the moment that it is named in such

company and in this affair, I shall be proud of it."

The General nodded.

"One thing more: the matter is pressing, very pressing. When do you

think you can have the report ready?"

"If I can communicate with Herr von Schönau to-morrow morning, it shall

be ready the morning after."

"But you would have to work all night."

"I am a good sleeper, General, and I can keep awake too when

necessary."

The General smiled.

"Thank you, my dear Schmidt."

It was the first time that he had spoken to Reinhold in the

unceremonious manner usual from superior officers to their younger

comrades. He had risen, and his usually stern glance rested with almost

fatherly kindness on the young man who stood before him, colouring with

pleasure and pride.

"And now go and amuse yourself for a little while with the young

people; you are still young enough yourself, thank God. There comes my

son, probably to fetch you."

"Just so," said Ottomar, who appeared hurriedly and excitedly in the

doorway. "I apologise; but Elsa----"

"Off with you!" said the General.

Ottomar drew Reinhold away.

The General looked thoughtfully after the two young men.

"It is a pity," he said, "but one cannot have everything at once, and

if Ottomar--what do you want!"

"This letter has just been left."

"A letter, now? How can that be?"

"The hall door is open, sir. The man who brought it said it was lucky,

as otherwise he would have had to ring. It was very important."

"Very odd!" said the General, contemplating the letter which he had

taken from the servant.

It was a large, business-like looking letter, and the direction was in

a clerk's hand.

"Very odd!" said the General again.

He had opened the letter mechanically and began to read it. What was

this? He passed his hand over his eyes and looked again; but there it

stood quite plain, in clear, bold words. His face became purple.

"Have you any orders, sir?" asked August, who was anxiously waiting.

"No, no! nothing, nothing! You can go," murmured the General, as he put

the letter down and pretended to fold it. But the servant had hardly

left the room before he took it up again to read to the end. And then

the strong man trembled from head to foot, while with a cautious glance

around he quickly folded the letter, and tearing open his uniform, put

it in his pocket.

"Unhappy boy!" he murmured.

CHAPTER X.

The last carriage had driven away; the servants were arranging the

rooms under Sidonie's directions. Elsa, who generally spared her aunt

all household cares, had withdrawn under pretext of feeling a little

tired, that, in her quiet room, she might let the soft echoes of this

happy evening die out of her heart, undisturbed by the clatter of

chairs and tables. It had not needed that he should dance the

Rheinländer so admirably; she would still have brought him in the

cotillon the large blazing order which she had placed at the bottom of

the basket, and which, when her turn came, she boldly and successfully

drew out, and then with trembling hands fastened it beside the iron

cross on his breast. Yes; her hands had trembled and her heart had

fluttered as she had done the great deed, and then looked up in his

sparkling eyes; but it was from happiness, from pure happiness and joy.

And it was happiness and joy which now kept her awake, after she had

laid her greatest treasures--the album with his portrait and the little

compass--on the table by her bedside, and had extinguished the candle,

which she lighted again in order to cast a glance at the box containing

the compass, and to assure herself that "it was still faithful," and

"turned towards its master," and then opened the album at the place at

which it always opened, and looked at his portrait once more; no, not

at the portrait--that was detestable--but at the inscription, "With all

my heart," and softly breathed a kiss upon it, and then quickly put the

light out again, laid her head on the pillow, and sought in her dreams

him to whom she was faithful waking and sleeping, and of whom she knew

that he was faithful to her sleeping or waking.

Ottomar had also, as soon as the last guests were gone, retired, with a

"Good-night; I am tired to death; what has become of my father?" and

had gone downstairs without waiting for the answer. In the passage

leading to his room, he must pass his father's door. He stood still for

a moment. His father, who had gone downstairs a few minutes before, was

doubtless still up, and Ottomar was accustomed under similar

circumstances to knock and, at least, wish him good-night through the

open door. This evening he did not do so. "I am tired to death," he

repeated, as if he wished to apologise to himself for this breach of

his usual habit.

But arrived in his room, he did not think of going to bed. It would

have been useless so long as the blood coursed through his temples,

"like mad," said Ottomar, while he tore off and threw down his uniform

with the cotillon orders, and tore open his waistcoat and cravat,

and put on the first garment that he laid his hand upon--his

shooting-coat--and stationed himself at the open window with a cigar.

The night was very fresh, but the cold did him good; a drizzling rain

was falling from the black clouds, but he did not heed it; he stood

there looking out into the dark autumn night, and smoking his cigar,

confused thoughts whirling through his troubled brain, and the beating

of the veins of his temples and the sighing of the wind in the trees

prevented his hearing a twice-repeated knock at the door. He started

like a criminal when he heard a voice at his ear. It was August.

"I beg pardon, sir. I knocked more than once."

"What do you want?"

"The General begs you will go to him at once."

"Is my father ill?"

August shook his head. "The General has not yet undressed, and does not

look exactly ill, only a little----"

"Only a little what?"

The man scratched his head. "A little odd, sir. I think, sir, the

General----"

"Confound you, will you speak out?"

August came a step nearer, and said in a whisper, "I think the General

had a disagreeable letter a little while ago; it may have been about

half-past eleven. I did not see the man who brought it, and Friedrich

did not recognise him, and I believe he went away again immediately.

But I was obliged to take the letter to the General myself, and the

General made a curious face when he read the letter."

"From a lady?"

August could not help smiling, in spite of his sincere anxiety for his

young master.

"Oh no!" said he. "They look different, one finds that out by

experience; an important looking letter."

"Those infernal Jews!" muttered Ottomar. He could not understand what

it meant; the next bill was only due in a week's time; but what else in

the world could it be? His father would be in an awful rage again.

Well, he would only have to propose a few days earlier, if he must

propose, were it only to put an end to these everlasting worries, which

left a man no peace even to smoke his cigar quietly in his own room at

night.

He tossed the cigar out of window. August had picked up his uniform

coat, and was taking off the cotillon orders.

"What is that for?"

"Won't you put on your uniform, sir?" asked August.

"Nonsense!" said Ottomar. "It would only--" He broke off; he could not

say to August, "It would only make this tiresome business longer and

more solemn." "I shall simply tell my father that I do not mean to

trouble him with these matters in future, but prefer to allow Wallbach

finally to settle my affairs," said he to himself, while August went

before him along the passage with the lamp, the gaslights having been

extinguished, and stopped at his father's door.

"You may put the light down on the table and go to bed, and tell

Friedrich to wake me at six o'clock."

He had spoken louder than was necessary, and it struck him that his

voice sounded strange, as if it were not his own voice. Of course it

was only because the house was quite quiet, so quiet that he again

heard the blood coursing through his temples, and the beating of his

heart.

"Those infernal Jews!" he muttered again through his teeth as he

knocked at the door.

"Come in!"

His father stood at his writing-table, above which a hanging lamp was

burning. On the console before the looking-glass also the lamps were

still burning. The room seemed disagreeably light and formal-looking,

although it was exactly as Ottomar had always seen it, as long as he

could remember. He had better have put on his uniform after all.

"I must apologise for my dress, father; I was just going to bed, and

August seemed to think you were in such a hurry."

His father remained standing at the table, leaning on one hand, with

his back towards him, without answering. The silence lay like a

mountain on Ottomar's soul. With a great effort he shook off his vague

dread.

"What do you want, father?"

"First that you should read this letter," said the General, turning

round slowly, and pointing to a paper that was spread out before him on

the table.

"A letter to me?"

"In that case I should not have read it; and I have read it."

He had stepped back from the table, and paced slowly up and down the

room with his hands behind his back, while Ottomar, standing where

his father had stood just before, without taking the letter in his

hand--the handwriting was legible enough--read as follows:

"Honoured Sir,--I trust your honour will forgive your humble servant,

the undersigned, for venturing to call your honour's attention to a

circumstance which threatens seriously to endanger the welfare of your

honoured family. It concerns the relations which have for some time

subsisted between your son, Lieutenant von Werben, and the daughter of

your neighbour, Herr Schmidt, the owner of the great marble-works. Your

honour will excuse the undersigned from entering into details, with

which he is thoroughly conversant, but which are better consigned to

the obscurity in which the parties in question seek in vain to remain,

and if the undersigned begs you to ask your son where, and in whose

company he was this evening between eight and nine, it is only to prove

to your honour how far the said relations have been carried.

"It would be both foolish and unpardonable to suppose that your honour

is acquainted with all this, and has connived at it till your son is on

the point of being betrothed to the daughter of an ultra-radical

democrat. On the contrary, the undersigned can imagine beforehand the

painful astonishment which your honour will experience on reading these

lines; but, your honour, the undersigned has also been a soldier, and

knows what military honour is, as indeed all his life long he has

cherished it, and he cannot endure any longer to see the honour of such

a brave officer so criminally trifled with behind his back, by him who

more than any other appears called to protect that honour.

"The undersigned feels he need say no more in assertion of the great

veneration with which he is of his honour and his honour's whole family

"The obedient, humble servant."

The General did not interrupt his son for some minutes, but as Ottomar

still remained motionless, staring in front of him, his teeth pressing

hard on his white lip, he stopped in his walk at the far end of the

room, and asked:

"Have you any idea who wrote that letter?"

"No."

"Have you the slightest suspicion that the lady whom it concerns----"

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Ottomar impetuously.

"I beg your pardon, but I am under the painful necessity of asking

questions, as you do not appear disposed to give me the explanations

which I expected."

"What am I to explain!" asked Ottomar half defiantly; "the thing is

true."

"Short and conclusive," answered the General, "but not quite clear. At

least, some points still require clearing up. Have you anything to

reproach this lady with--I may call her so?"

"I must beg you to do so."

"Well, then, have you anything in the least to reproach this lady with,

which, setting aside outward circumstances of which we will speak

later, could prevent you from bringing her into Elsa's company? On your

honour!"

"On my honour, nothing!"

"Do you know anything of her family, again setting aside outward

circumstances, even the smallest fact, which would and ought to hinder

any other officer who was not in your peculiar position from forming a

connection with her family! On your honour!"

Ottomar hesitated a moment; he knew absolutely nothing dishonourable of

Philip; he only had the inborn instinct of a gentleman against a man

who, in his eyes, is not a gentleman; but he would have considered it

cowardly to shelter himself behind this vague feeling.

"No!" said he moodily.

"You have acquainted the lady with your circumstances?"

"In a general way, yes."

"Amongst other things, that you are disinherited if you marry a woman

who is not of noble birth?"

"No."

"That was somewhat imprudent; however, I can understand it. But in a

general way you say that she is aware of the difficulties which, under

the most favourable circumstances, must stand in the way of a union

between you and her?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever let her perceive that you have neither the will nor the

power to remove these difficulties?"

"No."

"Rather have allowed her to believe, have probably assured her that you

can and will set aside these obstacles?"

"Yes."

"Then you will marry her."

Ottomar started like a horse touched by the spur. He had felt that this

must and would be the end; and yet, as the words were spoken, his pride

chafed against the pressure put upon his heart even by his own father.

And in the background lurked again ghost-like the horrid sensation that

he had had in the park; that he was weaker than she who so confidingly

nestled in his arms. Was he to be always the weaker, always to follow,

whether he would or no, always to have his path traced out for him by

others?

"Never!" burst from him.

"How! never!" said the General. "Surely I am not speaking to a

headstrong boy who breaks the toy that he no longer cares about, but to

an officer and a gentleman who is accustomed to keep his word

strictly."

Ottomar felt that he must give a reason, or at least the shadow of a

reason.

"I mean," he said, "that I cannot make up my mind to take a step in one

direction that would compel me to do wrong in another."

"I think I understand your position," said the General; "it is not an

agreeable one, but a man who pays attention in so many quarters should

be prepared for the consequences. I must, however, do you the justice

of admitting that I begin now to understand your behaviour to Fräulein

von Wallbach, and that I only find wanting in it that consistency to

which you have unfortunately never accustomed me on any point. In my

opinion it was your duty to draw back once for all, the instant that

your heart became seriously engaged in another direction. No doubt,

considering our intimate acquaintance with the Wallbachs, this would

have been extremely difficult and disagreeable, still a man may be

deceived in his feelings, and society accepts such changes of mind and

their practical consequences, provided everything is done at the right

time and in a proper manner. How you are now to draw back, without

bringing upon yourself and us the most serious embarrassment, I do not

know; I only know that it must be done. Or have you carried your

misconduct to its highest point and bound yourself here as you are

bound there?"

"I am bound to Fräulein von Wallbach by nothing that the whole world

has not seen; by no word that the whole world has not heard, or might

not have heard, and my feelings for her have been from the first as

undecided----"

"As your behaviour. Let us say no more about it, then; let us rather

face the situation into which you have brought yourself, and deduce the

consequences. The first is, that you have destroyed your diplomatic

career--you cannot appear at the Court of St. Petersburg or any other

court with a wife of low birth; the second, that you must exchange into

another regiment, as you would never see the last of the collisions and

rubs that must happen to you in your present regiment if you had a

Fräulein Schmidt for your wife; the third, that if the lady does not

bring you a fortune, or at least a very considerable addition to your

means, you will have for the future to live in a very different way

from what you have been hitherto accustomed to, and one which I fear

will not be in accordance with your tastes; the fourth consequence is,

that in forming this connection, were it as honourable in one sense as

I wish and hope it may be, you will, according to the literal words of

the will, lose all right to your inheritance. I mention this only in

order to put the whole matter clearly before you."

Ottomar knew that his father had not said everything, that he had been

generously silent with regard to the five-and-twenty thousand thalers

which he had in the course of the last few years paid for his son's

debts, that is to say, all but a small remnant of his own property, and

that he could not soon repay his father the money as he had fully

intended to do; perhaps would never be able to repay it. His father

would then only have his pay, and later his pension, to depend upon,

and he had often spoken lately of retiring.

His eyes, which in his confusion had sought the ground, now turned

timidly towards his father, who, as before, slowly paced up and down

the room. Was it the light, or was it that he looked at him more

closely than usual? his father seemed to him aged by ten years, for the

first time he looked like an old man. With the feelings of respect and

affection that he had always entertained towards him were mixed a

sensation almost of pity; he would have liked to throw himself at his

feet, and clasping his knees, to cry: "Forgive me the sins I have

committed against you!" But he felt rooted to the spot; his limbs would

not obey him, or go the way he wished; his tongue seemed glued to the

roof of his mouth; he could utter nothing but: "You have still Elsa!"

The General had remained standing before the life-sized pictures of his

parents, which adorned one of the walls; an officer of rank in the

uniform worn in the war of liberation, and a lady, still young, in the

dress of that time, who strikingly resembled Elsa about the forehead

and eyes.

"Who knows?" said he.

He passed his hand over his forehead.

"It is late; two o'clock; and to-morrow will have its cares also. Will

you be so good as to extinguish the gas-light above you? Have you got a

light outside!"

"Yes, father."

"Good-night, then."

He had himself extinguished the lamp in front of the looking-glass and

taken up the other one. "You may go."

Ottomar longed to ask for his hand, but he dared not, and with a

good-night that sounded defiant, because he was ready to burst into

tears, he moved towards the door. His father stopped at the door of his

bedroom: "One thing more! I had forgotten to say that I reserve to

myself the right of taking the next step. As you have delayed so long

in taking the initiative, you will not refuse to grant me this favour.

I shall of course keep you _au courant_. I beg that you will meantime

take no step without my knowledge. We must at least act in concert, now

we have come to an understanding."

He said the last words with a sort of melancholy smile that cut Ottomar

to the heart. He could bear it no longer and rushed out of the room.

The General also had his hand on the door; but when Ottomar had

disappeared he drew it back, carried the lamp to the writing-table, and

took out a casket in which he kept, amongst other ornaments of little

value that had belonged to his dead wife and his mother, the iron rings

that his parents had worn during the war of liberation.

He took out the rings.

"Times have altered," he said, "not improved. What, ah! what has become

of your piety, your dutifulness, your chaste simplicity, your holy

self-sacrifice? I have honestly endeavoured to emulate you, to be the

worthy son of a race that knew no fame but the courage of its men and

the virtue of its women. How have I sinned that I should be so

punished?"

He kissed the rings and laid them in the casket; and took from amongst

several miniatures on ivory, one of a beautiful brown-eyed,

brown-haired boy about six years old.

He gazed long and immovably at it.

"The male line of the Werbens would die out with him, and--he was my

darling. Perhaps I am punished because I was so unspeakably proud of

him."

CHAPTER XI.

"Why did my brother ring for his coffee at four o'clock!" asked Aunt

Rikchen in the kitchen.

"I do not know," answered Grollmann.

"You never do know anything," said Aunt Rikchen.

Grollmann shrugged his shoulders, took the tray on which the second

breakfast was prepared for his master and left the room, but came back

in a few minutes and set down the tray, as he had taken it away, on the

dresser.

"Well?" asked Aunt Rikchen irritably, "is it wrong again?"

"My master is asleep," said Grollmann.

Aunt Rikchen in her astonishment almost dropped the coffee-pot from

which she had just poured Reinhold's coffee. "Good heavens!" she

exclaimed, "how can my brother sleep at this hour! He has never in his

whole life done such a thing before. Is he ill?"

"I don't think so," said Grollmann.

"Has anything happened this morning?"

"This morning, no."

"Or yesterday evening?" asked Aunt Rikchen, whose sharp ears had

detected the short pause which Grollmann had made between "this

morning" and "no."

"I suppose so," said Grollmann, staring before him, while the wrinkles

in his weather-beaten face seemed to deepen every moment.

"Miserable man, tell me at once!" exclaimed Aunt Rikchen, seizing the

old man by the arm and shaking him, as if she wished to shake his

secret out of him.

"I know nothing," said Grollmann, freeing himself; "is the coffee ready

for the Captain?"

"Why does my nephew want it in his room to-day?" asked Aunt Rikchen.

"I don't know," answered Grollmann, slipping away with the coffee, as

he had done before with the breakfast-tray.

"He is a horrid man," said Aunt Rikchen; "he will be the death of me

some day, with his mysteries. He shall tell me when he comes back."

But Grollmann did not come back, although Aunt Rikchen almost tore down

the bell-rope. Aunt Rikchen was very angry, and would have been furious

if she had heard Grollmann relating above to Reinhold unasked, with the

minutest details, what he would not have told her for any money.

"For you see, sir," said Grollmann, "she is so good in other respects,

Fräulein Frederike; but what she knows she must tell, sooner or later,

if it cost her her life; and the master cannot bear that, especially

from his sister, and we are the sufferers."

"What did happen?" asked Reinhold.

"This was it," said the old man. "About twelve o'clock last night he

came back from the second meeting of the manufacturers; I lighted him

to his room, as usual, turned up the lamps in his study, and went into

his bedroom to shut the windows, which always stay open till he goes to

bed, winter and summer; and there, close to the window, on the floor,

lay, what I took at first for a piece of paper, till I took it up and

found that it was a regular letter, which somebody must have thrown in

from the street, and the small stone that had been fastened to it by a

bit of packthread lay close by. I hesitated for a minute or two whether

I would not hide the letter, without saying anything to the master,

till it occurred to me that the letter might possibly be from a friend,

and contain information of something which the master ought to know--a

fire, an attempt at murder, or God knows what, of which the rabble are

quite capable; so I took it in to the master and told him where and how

I had just found it. The master just looked at the address and said:

'That is written in a disguised hand; I will have nothing to do with

it; throw it into the fire.' But I urged him so that he at length gave

way and opened the letter. The master was standing at one side of the

table and I at the other, and of course I could see his face while he

was reading; and I was terribly alarmed, for the blood rushed to his

head, and the hand in which he held the letter trembled so, that I

thought, begging your pardon, that he was going to have a fit. But it

passed off; the master only let fall the letter and said: 'It is

nonsense; I knew it before. They will not burn the house over our

heads; you may go to bed in peace.' I went, but I was not in peace, and

was not much surprised when the master rang for me this morning at

half-past three--he is always particularly early when he has had any

trouble or annoyance in the evening, or if he has anything in

particular on his mind. This time it must have been something very bad;

the master was in exactly the same dress in which he had come home

yesterday evening, and the bed had not been touched. On the other hand,

the bottle of wine which I always put in his room at night, and out of

which he generally drinks only a glass or two, sometimes nothing at

all, was empty to the very last drop; and he looked so wild and strange

that I was naturally alarmed, and asked the same question that the

Fräulein asked just now, if he was ill. He denied it however, said he

had been very much vexed yesterday evening, and added something about

the gentlemen who would not hear reason and were going to spoil all by

their cowardice, and so on; but it all sounded confused and strange, as

if, begging your pardon, he were not quite right in his head. I asked

him if he would sleep now for a few hours, and was relieved when he lay

down on the sofa and let me cover him up, saying, 'I wish to be woke at

half-past eight, Grollmann.' And at half-past eight I went back again,

but the coverlet lay on the ground near the sofa, and I saw at a glance

that the master had not slept a minute. He had however washed and

dressed himself, and now looked very ill. He said he had not been able

to sleep, and had no time now. He wanted his breakfast in half an hour;

at ten he had to be at another meeting, to which the workmen were going

to send delegates. 'I promised to be there,' he said, 'though I had

rather not go; I might meet some one there whom I had rather not meet

to-day.' I did not dare to ask who the some one was, but I thought to

myself, I am glad it is not me, for he gave a look, Captain, that

filled me with terror. If he would only go to sleep now, thought I to

myself, for while he was speaking he had sat down on the sofa and

stared before him as if he were half asleep already. Well, Captain, and

sure enough when I went in just now with the breakfast, quite quietly,

he was sitting asleep in the corner of the sofa. For heaven's sake, let

him sleep, thought I, slipping gently out of the room with my

breakfast; and now I only ask, Captain, shall I wake him when it is

time, or shall I let him sleep? He wants it, God knows."

"Let him sleep, Grollmann," said Reinhold, after a short pause; "I will

take the blame on myself."

"He won't blame you," said Grollmann, passing his hand through his grey

hair; "he thinks too much of you; I will risk it."

"Do so," said Reinhold, "on my authority, and do not trouble yourself

any more about it. I am convinced that your first idea was correct, and

that it was a threatening letter. You know my uncle; he fears nothing."

"God knows it," said Grollmann.

"But it has vexed and excited him still more, when he had already come

back vexed and excited from the meeting. These are troublesome times

for him, which must be gone through. We must be prepared for bad days

till the good ones come again."

"If they ever do come," said Grollmann.

The old man had left the room; Reinhold tried to return to the work he

had begun, but he could not collect his thoughts. He had tried to

comfort the old man, yet he himself now felt uneasy and troubled.

If his uncle did not learn to moderate himself, if he continued to look

and to treat in this passionately tragical way an affair which, near as

it lay to his heart, was in fact a matter of business and must be

considered from a sober, business-like point of view, the bad days

might indeed last long, inconveniently long, for all concerned--"to

whom I myself belong now," said Reinhold.

He stood up and went to the window. It was a raw, disagreeable day.

From the low-hanging clouds was falling a fine, cold rain; the tall

trees rustled in the wind, and withered leaves were driven through the

grey mist. How different had it looked when a few days ago--it was only

a very few, though it seemed to him an eternity--he had looked down

here one morning, for the first time. The sky had been such a lovely

blue, and white clouds had stood in that blue sky so still, it seemed

as if they could not weary of contemplating the beautiful sun-lighted

earth, on which men, surrounded, indeed, by the smoke of chimneys and

distracted by the noise of wheels and saws, must earn their bread in

the sweat of their brow, though the sun shone brightly and the birds

sang cheerily in the thick branches--that earth on which there was so

much pleasure, and love, and blessed hope, even in the heart of a poor

blind girl, and a thousand times more for him who saw all this beauty

spread out before him, doubly glorious in the reflection of the love

which shone and glittered through his heart as the sun through the

dewdrops on the leaves. And because the sun was now for a time hidden

behind a cloud, was all the glory passed away? Because a few hundred

idle men had cast their tools from their horny hands, must every one

feel life a burden, and refuse to carry that burden any longer? No; a

thousand times no! The sun will shine again; the men will return to

their duty; and you, happy man--thrice happy man--for whom the sun

shines in spite of all in your innermost heart, return to your work,

which for you is no hard duty, but rather a joy and an honour.

Reinhold greeted with eyes and hand the neighbouring house, one window

of which he had long ago discovered between the branches of the plane

trees, which he watched more eagerly than any star; and then hoped that

Ferdinanda, whom he suddenly perceived in the garden, would take his

greeting to herself if she had seen him.

She could hardly have seen the greeting, and could not even have seen

him at the window as she walked up and down between the shrubs, under

the rustling trees, without appearing to notice the rain which was

falling on her. At any rate she was without hat, without umbrella, in

her working dress, without even a shawl; sometimes standing still and

gazing up into the driving clouds, then walking on again, her eyes

turned to the ground, evidently sunk in the deepest thought.

"Curious people, those artists," thought Reinhold, while he seated

himself again at his work. "What a fool you were to think that her

heart could beat for any creature of flesh or blood, or, indeed, for

anything but her Reaping Girl and Boy, if she has a heart at all."

In the meantime Grollmann was standing undecided at the top of the

staircase, before the door leading to his master's room.

His conscience was not quite satisfied by Reinhold's assurance that he

would take the responsibility on himself, if the master overslept

himself. Should he go downstairs? should he go in? He must make up his

mind; it was a quarter past nine. "If only something would occur to

oblige me to wake him," said Grollmann.

At that moment he heard the door open on the lower floor, and some one

came up the stairs. Grollmann looked over the banisters; an officer--a

general--the old General from over the way. "That is curious," thought

Grollmann, and stood at attention, as was fitting in an old servant who

had been a soldier.

The General had come up the stairs. "I wish to speak to Herr Schmidt;

will you announce me?"

"It is not exactly his hour for receiving," said Grollmann; "and----"

"Perhaps he will receive me, however, if you tell him that I have come

on most important business; here is my card."

"It is not necessary, General. I have the honour, General----"

"Take the card, all the same."

Grollmann held the card undecided in his hand; but, if the business was

so important--and he could not very well send a general unceremoniously

away. "Will you excuse me a minute. General?"

The old man slipped through the door. The General looked gloomily

around on the broad carpeted marble steps with their gilt banisters, on

the dark, gilded folding-doors which led on three sides out of the

gallery in which he stood, while the fourth wall, in which was the

window, was decorated with magnificent plants; on the polished stucco

walls, on the richly decorated ceiling.

"I wish the man lived in a plainer house," murmured the General.

"Will you step this way, sir?" Grollmann had his hand on the door. "He

has not slept all night," he whispered, as if he must apologise for his

master, who would probably not do so for himself.

"I have not slept either," answered the General with a melancholy

smile, as he walked with a firm, quiet step through the door, which the

old man now opened and shut after him.

CHAPTER XII.

The two men stood opposite one another, each measuring the other's

strength, like two athletes who are about to fight to the death, and

yet cannot resist admiring each other's noble appearance, and thinking

that whichever falls will have succumbed to a worthy adversary. And yet

the General had all the time the sensation that, strong and powerful as

was the man who stood before him, he himself was in that moment the

more composed, the calmer, and therefore the stronger. He saw it in the

sullen fire that smouldered in the man's eyes, in the trembling of the

hand with which he pointed to a chair; he heard it in the deep voice

which now said: "I did not expect your visit, General; but it does not

surprise me."

"I conjectured as much," answered the General; "and it is for that

reason that you see me here. I thought that every hour which passed

unused by us, would diminish the probability of a friendly arrangement

of the affair which brings me to you, as it would leave time for the

miserable writer of this letter to spread his poison further and

further. May I venture to give you the disagreeable task of reading

this document?"

"Will you at the same time take the trouble of casting a glance at this

production?"

The two men exchanged the letters which they had received. That which

the General now read with calm attention, ran thus:

"This then is the man who dismisses his work-people because they have

not kept their word, as he says. Does he then keep his, he whose mouth

is always full of the words liberty, equality, and fraternity; and

boasts that he alone has held firmly by the old democratic flag of '48,

and who now shuts his eyes while his son buys estates and builds

palaces with the money he has stolen from honest people, and while his

daughter runs after an officer of the Guards, who has a new mistress

every six months, and leads the wildest of lives, but who will

ultimately make Fräulein Schmidt into Frau von Werben? Or does Herr

Schmidt know this? does he wish this? It is not unlike the great man of

progress; for to think one thing and speak another, and to speak one

thing and act another, has always been the practice of these gentlemen,

which they carry on till at last some one finds them out and stops

their dirty work, as in this case is resolved by one who is determined

to stop at nothing."

The General gave back the letter and received his own.

"The man does not seem to have thought it necessary to put on any mask

with you," said the General, "except in the handwriting."

"Which, however, I recognised at the first glance," answered Uncle

Ernst; "it is that of a certain Roller, who was for several years

overseer at my works, till I was obliged a few days ago to dismiss him

for disobedience, under the circumstances to which he alludes at the

commencement of his letter."

"I had heard of it," said the General, "and that explains sufficiently

the man's brutal vindictiveness; and as for the way in which he has

discovered what has up to this moment been a secret to both of us, we

should not wish to follow him there if we could. Let us therefore set

that point aside. Another appears to me more important. This man has

not attempted to conceal his handwriting in the letter which he has

written to me; he evidently concluded, therefore, that we should not

communicate with one another."

The General, at these words, raised his eyes, as if accidentally; but

his glance was sharp and piercing as that of the commander of a battery

counting the seconds as he looks out for the spot to which the first

shot shall be directed.

"That is the only point on which he and I agree," said Uncle Ernst.

His voice, which had become calmer, trembled again, and he had cast

down his eyes. The General saw that it would probably be easy for him

to provoke an explanation which would relieve him from all further

explanation on his part, but he had laid his plan, point by point, and

he was accustomed to carry his plans out. He said therefore:

"Before I proceed further, will you kindly allow me to give you a

slight description of my views, socially and morally, and of the

situation in which I and my family are placed? Imagine, I beg of you,

that this is necessary for some unimportant purpose, that I must speak

and you must listen, although the one had rather be silent and the

other had rather not hear."

The General gave Herr Schmidt no time to deny him the desired

permission, but continued, without pausing:

"I am descended from a very old family, and can trace my descent

authentically through many generations, though we appear never to have

been rich, and for the last two centuries must reckon ourselves as

belonging to the poorer, not to say to the poor nobility. It is no

doubt a consequence of this poverty that the male descendants of the

family, which was never very widespread, and has often depended only on

one life, have almost without exception passed their lives at Court,

and in attendance on their princes, particularly the military ones, and

even the women have often devoted themselves to the service of their

princesses. I consider it again as a result of this consequence, that

fidelity to their liege lords, or, to express it in modern language,

devotion to the royal family, the feeling of duty, and the obligation

of showing themselves grateful for favours received, have been handed

down and held from generation to generation in my family as their

dearest, and often as their only heritage; the almost countless names

of the Werbens in the annals of war and in the army lists, the names of

the many who have fallen honourably and nobly before the enemy, are a

proof of this.

"And as it usually happens in old families that the children who have

been brought up by their parents in the same ideas in which the latter

were brought up by their parents, and not only in the same ideas, but

also in the same habits, morally, socially, and professionally,

resemble their parents, both bodily and mentally, more than is the case

under other circumstances, and this resemblance is at first looked upon

as a curiosity, and then, after the fashion of mankind, as an

advantage, so it has been with us. I know that this family pride is in

the eyes of others laughable, if not wrong. I have no intention of

justifying it; I have, as I told you at first, no other object than to

give you an insight into the innermost life and habits of the family

from which I descend, and thus to facilitate the explanation of certain

peculiarities of character and of the rule by which I regulate and have

regulated what I do or leave undone in all cases, as, for example, in

the following:

"One of my two sisters--there are three of us--married to a rich landed

proprietor, had the misfortune to have been mistaken in her choice, and

committed the fault of bearing her unhappiness unworthily, and even of

making it an excuse for a passion which she conceived for a man whom

she had met abroad, and who was wanting, not only in noble birth, but

also in all those virtues and qualities which I require in every man

whom I am to respect. Death brought about the separation to which my

brother-in-law had refused his consent. His large property was to

descend to my children. After long resistance and deep consideration,

in order not to embitter the unhappy man's dying hours, I accepted the

half for my children, under the same conditions which were imposed upon

my sister for the possession of the other half, namely, that the

inheritance should pass from her if she ever made a marriage contrary

to the traditions of our family; I mean a marriage with a man not of

noble birth. I may mention, by-the-way, that I myself had and have no

resources but my pay, with the exception of what, to modern ideas, is a

very small sum which I have saved out of that pay in the course of

years. Even that small portion I no longer possess. My son has not

inherited my economical habits; perhaps the spirit of the times, which

is so unfavourable to the moderation which was recommended to us old

people as the highest virtue is in fault. Perhaps I myself made a

mistake when I allowed him to enter a regiment in which, as matters

stand now, all the officers should be rich men; enough that my son has

incurred debts which I have paid as long as it was in my power. For the

reasons before mentioned, I can do this no longer, and I have

unfortunately cause to suspect that my son's position is a very

precarious one if he loses the revenues of the inheritance on which he

entered a year and a half ago. There would result for him from a

marriage contrary to the habits of his rank and the traditions of his

family, other more or less great worldly disadvantages which I will

pass over, as my intention is only to point out to you in a general way

our moral and financial situation; to suggest the sensations with which

I read that letter; and lastly, to denote the course of the

conversation which I had last night with my son immediately after the

receipt of the letter, and which led to the result which I will now,

with your permission, communicate to you."

"I am sorry to be obliged to interrupt you, General," said Uncle Ernst.

"If you thought it right to justify beforehand the result of your

considerations, whatever it may be, I think I may reasonably claim for

myself the same favour. I might possibly be suspected of having formed

my resolution consequently upon yours. The possibility of this

suspicion would be unbearable to me; I shall avoid it if you will allow

me to state my circumstances as clearly as you have just done yours;

the conclusion will follow naturally."

"I cannot refuse," said the General; "though I should have wished that

you would allow me to add the few important words which I still have to

say. I have a conviction that it would be better for all parties."

"I must insist, however, on my request," said Uncle Ernst.

The General had again fixed his clear, steady glance on his opponent.

His plans were crossed. "I ought to have proceeded more rapidly," said

he to himself, "now I shall be forced to take the defensive, and the

attack will apparently be hot enough."

"Pray proceed," he said, leaning back in his chair.

Uncle Ernst did not answer immediately; when the General was announced,

he had determined to be calm; and while the General was speaking he had

constantly repeated this determination. He knew that he should have

remained so if he had found the haughty aristocrat whom he expected, if

the aristocrat had from the first explained to him with cold scorn, or

with brutal warmth, that a union between his son and a girl of low

birth was not to be thought of, and that he must request the father in

future to keep his daughter under better control, if he wished to avoid

scandal, and more to the same effect. But he had been deceived in his

expectations. All that the man brought forward were only circumstances,

explanations, insulting enough in reality, but the manner was

courteous, was meant to be courteous, and he for his part was forced to

swallow and choke down these polite insults with no less politeness. He

was really half choked. And it was just this that threatened to deprive

the passionate man of the last remains of his calm, that forced him to

be silent for a few minutes longer, till he had so far subdued his

raging heart, that he could at least preserve outward composure, and

not betray himself by his first words. And now for it!

"I have no family history to relate, even briefly, General. In the

ordinary sense of the word, I have no family to speak of at all; I do

not even know who my grandfather was. My father never spoke of him; he

appears to have had no reason to be proud of his father. My father was

proud, but only of himself, of his herculean strength, of his untiring

energy, of his dauntless courage. My father was the owner of a river

boat: if an opportunity occurred at the bursting of a dyke to risk his

life for that of others, or in the times of the French War to carry a

dangerous message, or to undertake anything which no one else would

undertake, my father did it, and carried it out. He was as passionate

as he was proud. When the superintendent of dykes, a man of high rank,

on one occasion had a quarrel with him and ventured to lay his hand

upon him, my father knocked him down on the spot, and paid for his

violence by a year's imprisonment.

"It seems that even people of no family have a right to talk of

hereditary virtues and vices. My brother, the father of my nephew, who

has the honour to be known to General von Werben, appeared to have

inherited only the virtues; an intelligent, prudent, brave man, who

left his home early, in order to seek his fortunes in the wide world,

and died many years ago in the exercise of his calling as captain of a

mail steamer at Hamburg. I, on the contrary, had inherited, besides the

few advantages of which my father could boast, nearly all his

weaknesses; I was proud, arrogant, haughty, and passionate, like him. I

have never been able to understand how men could endure any restraint

which they were able to throw off, I mean an unjust restraint, which

does not necessarily result from the nature of man, such as sickness or

death, or from the nature of society, such as law and order, but which

one set of men have exercised over another, from arbitrariness, avarice

or hard-heartedness, and which the others have borne out of stupidity,

denseness or cowardice. I have therefore always instinctively hated the

rule of kings and princes as an institution which only suits a people

that is yet in its infancy, or a worn-out and aged people, but which

must be rejected with horror by a strong nation, conscious of its

strength; and I have especially hated the nobility as the refuse and

chips of the material from which the idol is made; and I have hated all

institutions which in principle tend towards royalty and nobility. To

endure as little as possible of these restraints, to place myself in a

position in which I could live according to my convictions, has been,

as long as I can remember, the most absorbing passion of my mind. That

I have not remained as ignorant as I came out of the village school,

that I have worked my way up from my position as cabin-boy and

steersman to be a man of property, I may thank that passion. It ran a

little wild at first, before reason came to its aid and showed it ends

to which it could attain, instead of the unattainable ones for which it

struggled in its first heat; for instance, a free commonwealth, a

republic of equal men, not enslaved or dishonoured by the exemptions or

privileges of any one man."

Uncle Ernst paused; he must once more conquer the stream that rushed

roaring and raging from his heart to his brain. He must remain calm,

now especially.

Outside the rain was falling, a dull twilight reigned in the room.

The General sat, his head resting on his hand, sunk in thought. There

could only be a question now of an honourable retreat; the how would

settle itself.

"Proceed, I beg!" said he.

"A day came," continued Uncle Ernst, "when this ideal appeared no

longer to float in the clouds, but to be ready to descend upon the

earth. I regret deeply to have to awaken recollections which must be

painful and bitter to you, General; but I cannot unfortunately avoid

it, as you will see.

"On the 18th of March I had been directing, in the heart of the

Königsstadt, the erection of some barricades, against which, because

they were in reality made with greater art and upon a settled plan, and

also no doubt were better defended, the might of our opponents failed,

in spite of the obstinacy and bitterness with which they fought,

especially here, under the command of an officer whose fearless courage

must have excited the most sluggish to emulation. In fact he constantly

exposed himself almost as if he wished to meet death. He would

undoubtedly have found it here and in this hour had not our people been

miserable marksmen, who could only fire into the mass, but invariably

missed any single object. There was only one good marksman behind the

barricade; that one was the leader, myself. The wild duck that swift as

an arrow bursts through the sedges on the bank, had not been safe from

my gun, and the officer sat for a full minute as quietly on his horse,

in the midst of the hottest shower of balls, as if man and horse had

been carved in stone. More than once was my rifle pointed; I said to

myself that I must kill the officer, that this one man was more

dangerous to the cause for which I was fighting than whole regiments;

in fact that he was the personification of the cause for which he

fought. I could not make up my mind. It was doubtless the respect that

one brave man has for another--this time to my cost, for I was

convinced that this man, if ever I were in his power, would kill me

without mercy, like a poisonous snake; and he confirmed my

expectations. The battalion that he commanded was ordered to retire; I

saw that he exchanged warm words with the officer who brought the

order; I fancied I could see that he debated within himself whether he

should or should not obey the command, which he considered at once as

stupid and disgraceful--and from his point of view rightly; we could

not have held out five minutes longer. Military discipline conquered;

he rode close in front of the barricade, and said, while he thrust his

sword into the scabbard: 'I have orders to retire; if it depended upon

me I would overthrow you all and put every man of you to the sword.'

Then he turned his horse and rode back at a foot's pace. Even death by

a shot from behind had no terrors for him in this moment. A few balls

did indeed whistle past him, but the bullets which had spared his brave

breast did not touch his back."

Uncle Ernst was once more silent. The room had become almost dark; the

drizzling mist had turned into heavy rain; the large drops beat against

the window-panes, and the clock on the chimney-piece ticked loudly.

The General had leaned his head heavily on his hand, and he did not

raise it while he said, as before, in a curiously low, almost broken

voice:

"Go on, I beg!"

"The battle was at an end here; but from the centre of the town was

still heard the thunder of cannon and rattle of musketry. I hastened to

the spot where there seemed to be still something to do. I had to cross

the Königsstrasse if I did not wish to go a long way round; I made the

attempt, although I was told that it was in the hands of the troops

already almost as far as the Alexanderplatz. My attempt failed; a

quarter of an hour later I was a prisoner in the cellars of the King's

palace.

"I pass over the horrors of that night; a man must have experienced it,

when the close poisonous air, around the hundreds that were huddled

together, seemed to transform itself into grinning devils, which

whispered and mocked ceaselessly: 'In vain! in vain! Fool, fool! The

cause for which you fought is hopelessly lost--lost! A man must have

experienced that!

"About four o'clock we were led away, driven, hunted to Spandau. My

strength was not yet broken, but weaker men gave way. Near me was a

pale youth, a delicate young student, in spectacles. He had held out

bravely as long as he could, but he could bear no more. Though he

clenched his teeth, the tears would burst forth when a blow in the back

from the butt-end of a musket forced him to exertions of which he was

no longer capable. Blood flowed from his eyes and mouth; I could no

longer bear the sight of his sufferings, I rushed forward, throwing

down all before me, towards an officer who rode alongside, and cried to

him: 'If you are a man do not suffer such unmanly cruelties to be

perpetrated close to you!' I was frantic; I believe I had seized his

horse by the bridle. The officer may have thought it was a personal

attack; he spurred his horse which reared and threw me down. I started

up again immediately: 'If you are a man!' I cried again, once more

throwing myself before him. 'Democrat!' and he gnashed his teeth, 'then

die if you will have it so!' He raised himself in his stirrups, his

sword whistled over me. My broad-brimmed hat and my thick hair lessened

the force of the blow, but I sank on my knee, and for a moment lost

consciousness. It could only have been a moment. The next I stood there

again, determined to sell my life dearly, when another officer hastened

up, bringing a message to the first, an order--I do not know what--on

which the latter, exclaiming 'Is it possible?' turned his horse. At

that moment the moon, which had been hidden behind black clouds, shone

out; by its light I recognised distinctly in the officer my opponent at

the barricade. He galloped away. 'We shall meet for the third time!' I

cried after him, while I was forced back into the ranks with blows;

'perhaps it will be my turn then, and'--I swore a deep oath--'then I

will not again spare you.'

"Since that night four and twenty years have passed; I have seen the

officer often and often; naturally he did not know me; I should have

known him among millions. Since that time our hair and beards have

grown grey; I swear to God that I wished and hoped that that third time

would be spared me. It was not to be; he and I now stand here for the

third time face to face."

Both men had risen in their excitement. Neither dared to look at the

other; each shrank from saying the next word. The heavy drops rattled

against the windows; the clock on the chimney-piece prepared to strike.

The General knew the word that was to come as well as he knew the hour

that was about to strike; still it must be spoken.

"And now," he said, "for the conclusion; I think it is my turn."

Uncle Ernst looked up, like a lion whose victim has stirred again; the

General answered his dark and threatening glance by a melancholy smile,

and his deep voice sounded almost soft as he continued:

"It seems to me that we have exchanged the parts which are usually

taken by the man of the people and the aristocrat. The man of the

people remembers minutely a wrong that was done him a generation back,

and has forgiven nothing; the aristocrat has not indeed forgotten, but

he has learnt to forgive. Or do you think that he has nothing to

forgive? You said one must have experienced what you did on that night,

in order to understand it. Well! can you, on the other hand, place

yourself in the position of a man who saw, on that night, all that he

held honourable and holy, all for which he had lived and for which his

ancestors had shed their blood, fall to pieces in shameful ruin, and

chaos take its place? But he has learnt more than merely to forgive; he

has learnt to value the good qualities of his opponents wherever he can

find them; he has learnt no longer to shut his eyes to the weaknesses

of his own party; he has seen that the struggle must be fought out on

different ground, on the ground of right and justice, and that the

victory will remain with that party which understands how to seize

first on this ground and to take the strongest root. For this reason

the excesses committed by his party find no more inflexible judge than

himself; for this reason he demands that every one shall be in private

life an example and pattern of conduct and morals, and shall act

justly, let it cost him what it will. What it has cost me to make this

advance to you to-day, you must leave me to decide with myself and with

my God--it is more and less than you can understand. Enough that I am

here, and ask you to forgive my son, if on this matter, from a false,

culpable, but not unnatural regard to the circumstances in which he is

born, he has allowed himself to deviate from the straight road that led

him to the father of the woman he loved. I ask you not to let the

children suffer because the fathers have stood face to face with

weapons in their hands; I ask you, in the name of my son, for your

daughter's hand for my son."

Uncle Ernst started back like a traveller before whom a piece of rock

falls, blocking his path, while the precipice gapes near him, and no

return is possible.

Without, the storm raged; the clock struck the hour of ten. Uncle Ernst

collected himself; the rock must be removed--it must!

"I have sworn that this hand shall wither sooner than that it shall

touch the hand of General von Werben."

"But hardly by the God of goodness and mercy?"

"I have sworn it."

"Then remember what is written, 'That man is like the grass, that

to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven.' We are neither of us

any longer young; who knows how soon the morrow will come for us?"

"May it come soon, is my wish!"

"Mine also, perhaps, but till then? Remember that the father's blessing

builds the children's house; but that we have no power to loose

the bonds of two hearts that have found one another without our

help--perhaps against our wish and will. Consider that the

responsibility of the curse which must ensue from these unhallowed

bonds henceforth rests on your head."

"I have considered it."

"And I have done my duty."

The General bowed in his usual stately and dignified manner, and moved,

courteously escorted by Uncle Ernst, towards the door. There he stood

still:

"One thing more; the failure of consent on the part of the fathers

hinders a marriage at least in this case, in which a portionless

officer is the suitor. None the less will my son consider himself bound

till your daughter herself releases him. I take it for granted that

your daughter will not do this, unless her father exercises compulsion

over her."

"I take it for granted also that General von Werben has exercised no

compulsion on his son, in obtaining authority from the latter to make

the proposal with which he has just honoured me."

The stern eyes flashed, he had his opponent in his grasp; the crisis

must come now. A look of pain passed over the General's face.

"The supposition would not be quite correct; the sense of duty was

stronger in the father than in the son."

He was gone. The wild fire in the eyes of him who remained behind had

changed to a joyful gleam.

"I knew it! The brood are always the same, however they may boast of

their virtue. Down! down! down with them!"

He stood there, bending forward, moving his powerful arms, as if his

enemy in reality lay at his feet. Then he drew himself up. His arms

sank, the gleam disappeared from his eyes. The victory was not his yet;

another struggle was before him, the hardest, the struggle with his own

flesh and blood.

CHAPTER XIII.

For Ferdinanda the night had had no terrors, the morning no darkness.

In her soul was brightest day, for the first time for many months; for

the first time, indeed, she thought, since she knew what a passionate,

proud, ambitious heart beat in her bosom. They had often told her--in

former days, her mother; later, her aunt, her friends, all--that it

would one day bring her unhappiness, and that pride went before a fall;

and she had always answered scornfully, "Then I will be unhappy; I will

fall, if happiness is only to be had at the mean price of humility,

which always grovels in the dust before fate, and sings hymns of praise

if the wheels of envious fate have only grazed and not crushed her. I

am not like Justus or Cilli."

And she had been unhappy, even in the hours when the enthusiastic

artists--Justus's friends--had done homage in unmeasured terms to the

blooming beauty of the young girl; when these men praised her talents,

told her she was on the right road to become an artist; finally, that

she was an artist--a true artist. She did not believe them; and if she

really were an artist, there were so many greater ones--even Justus's

hand reached so much higher and further than hers; laughing, and

apparently without trouble, he gathered fruits for which she strove

with the most intense effort, and which, as she secretly acknowledged

to herself, must always be beyond her reach.

She had told her woes to that great French artist, on whom her beauty

had made such an overpowering expression. He had for some time only put

her off with courteous and smiling words; at last he had said

seriously:

"Mademoiselle, there is only one highest happiness for woman, and

that is love; and there is only one talent in which no man can equal

her--that is again love."

The words had crushed her; her artistic talent was then only a childish

dream, and love! Yes, she knew that she could love--unspeakably,

boundlessly! But the man was still to be found who could awaken that

love to its heavenward soaring flame; and woe to her when she found

him! He would not comprehend her love, he would not realise it, and he

would certainly be unable to return it; perhaps would shrink back

before its fire, and she would be more unhappy than before.

And was not this gloomy foreboding already sadly fulfilled? Had she not

already felt herself unspeakably unhappy in her love for him who had

come to her as if sent from heaven--as if he himself were one of the

heavenly ones? Had she not already, countless times, with hot tears,

with bitter scorn, with writhing despair, complained, exclaimed, cried

out, that he did not understand or realise her love, never would

understand or realise it? Had she not clearly seen that he trembled and

shrank back, not from the danger which threatened him on the dark path

of his love--he was as bold and dexterous as man could be--but before

her love, before her all-powerful, but also all-exacting, insatiable

love?

She had experienced this again yesterday, at the very instant that

followed that happy moment when she had received and returned his first

kiss! And to-day; to-day she smiled at her doubts amidst tears of joy;

to-day she asked pardon of her beloved, amidst a thousand burning

kisses that she pressed in thought on his beautiful brow, his tender

eyes, and his dear mouth, for every harsh or bitter word or thought she

had ever had against him, and which she never, never would say or think

again.

She had tried to work, to put the finishing touches to the "Reaping

Girl," but her hand had been hopeless, powerless, as in her first

attempts, and she had recollected, not without a shudder, that she had

vowed not to finish the group. The vow had been--contrary to her

anticipations--a forerunner of happiness. What was to her this

miserable image of jealous revenge? How worthless appeared to her all

this extensive apparatus of her work--this lofty room, these pedestals,

these mallets, chisels, modelling-tools; these casts of arms, hands,

feet; these heads, these busts from the originals of old masters; her

own sketches, attempts, completed works--childish strivings with

bandaged eyes for a happiness that was not to be found here--that was

only to be found in love, the sole, true talent of woman--her talent,

of which she felt that it was unique, that it outshone everything that

had till then been felt as love and called love!

She could not bear her room this morning; even her studio seemed too

small. She stepped into the garden, and wandered along the paths,

between the shrubs, under the trees, from whose rustling branches drops

of the night's rain fell upon her. How often had she hated the bright

sunshine, the blue sky, that had seemed to mock at her anguish! She

looked in triumph now up into the grey clouds that passed, dark and

heavy, above her head. What need had she of sun and light--she in whose

heart was nothing but light and brightness? The drizzling rain that now

began to fall would only serve to cool the internal fire that

threatened to consume her. Driving clouds, drizzling rain, rustling

trees, whispering shrubs, even the damp, black earth--all was

wonderfully beautiful in the reflection of her love!

She went in again and seated herself in the place where he had kissed

her, and dreamed again that happy dream, while near at hand was

hammering and knocking, and, between whiles, chattering and whispering,

and the rain rattled against the tall window--dreamed that her dream

had the power to draw him to her, who now opened the door softly

and--it was only a dream--came towards her with the tender smile on his

dear lips and the beautiful light in his dark eyes, till suddenly the

smile died on his lips, and only the eyes still gleamed, but no longer

with tender light, but with the gloomy, melancholy depths of her

father's eyes. And now they were not only her father's eyes; it was

more and more himself--her father. Good God!

She had started out of her doze; her limbs trembled; she sank back in

the chair, and drew herself up again. She had seen at once in the

glance of his eyes, in the letter which he held in his hand--seen

with the first half-waking glance why he had come. She said so, in

half-awake, wild, passionate words.

He had bent his head, but he did not contradict her; he answered

nothing but "My poor child!"

"I am your child no longer if you do this to me."

"I fear you have never been so in your heart."

"And if I have not been so, whose fault is it but yours? Have you ever

shown me the love that a child is entitled to ask from its father? Have

you ever done anything to make the life you gave me a happy one? Has my

industry ever drawn from you a word of praise, or my success a word of

acknowledgment? Have you not rather done everything to humble me in my

own eyes, to make me smaller than I was in reality, to insult my art,

to make me feel that in your eyes I was no artist and never should be

one--that you looked on all this as nothing better than a large doll's

house, which you had bought for me in order that I might trifle and

idle away my worthless time here! And now, now you come to tear my love

from me, only because your pride wills it so--only because you consider

it an insult that such a poor, useless creature should will, or wish

anything that you do not wish and will! But you are mistaken, father; I

am, in spite of all, your daughter. You may repudiate me, you may drive

me to misery, as you might dash me in pieces with that hammer, because

you are the stronger; but you cannot tear my love from me!"

"I both can and will."

"Try!"

"To try and to succeed are one. Would you be the mistress of Lieutenant

von Werben?"

"What has that question to do with my love?"

"Then I will put it in another form. Have you the face to make yourself

the equal of those wretched, foolish creatures who give themselves to a

man, whether without marriage or in marriage--for marriage does not

mend matters--for any other price than that of love, for which they

give their own in exchange? Herr von Werben has nothing to give you in

exchange; Herr von Werben does not love you."

Ferdinanda laughed scornfully. "And he has come to you, of whom he knew

that you pursue him and his kind with blind hatred, to tell you that?"

"He has not come; his father was forced to take the hard step for him,

for which he himself had not the courage, for which the father had to

force the son's consent."

"That is----"

"Not a lie! On my oath. And further, he did not even go to his father

of his own free will; he would not have done so to-day, he would

perhaps never have done it, if his father had not sent for him to ask

him if it were true what the sparrows said on the housetops, and what

insolent wretches wrote in anonymous letters to the unsuspecting

fathers, that Lieutenant von Werben had a love affair on the other side

of the garden-wall, or--what do I know!"

"Show me the letters!"

"Here is one; the General will doubtless willingly let you have the

other. I doubt whether his son will lay claim to it."

Ferdinanda read the letter.

She had taken it for granted that only Antonio could have been the

traitor; but this letter was not from Antonio, could not be from

Antonio. So that other eyes than the love-inspired, jealous eyes of

Antonio had seen through her secret. Her pale cheek glowed in angry

shame. "Who wrote the letter?"

"Roller; in the letter to the General, he has not disguised his hand."

She gave the letter hastily back to her father and struck her hands

together, as if she wished to remove all trace of its touch: "Oh, the

shame, the shame!" she murmured; "oh, the disgrace! the horror of it!"

The dismissed overseer had been at first received in the family, till

Ferdinanda saw that he had dared to raise his eyes to her; she had

taken advantage of a dispute he had had with her father first to loosen

and then to put an end altogether to his relations with the family. And

the insolent, evil eyes of this man--"Oh, the shame! oh, the disgrace!"

she murmured again.

She paced rapidly up and down, then hastened to the writing-table,

which stood at the far end of the long room, wrote a few hurried lines,

and then came back with the note to her father, who had remained

motionless on the same spot: "Read it!"

And he read:

"My father is ready to sacrifice his convictions for my sake and

consents to my marriage with Lieutenant von Werben. I, however, for

reasons which my pride refuses to write down, reject this marriage now

and for ever as a moral impossibility, and release Lieutenant von

Werben from any obligation which he has, or thinks he has, towards me.

This determination, which I have made of my own free will, is

irrevocable; any attempt on the part of Lieutenant von Werben to

overthrow it, I shall regard as an insult.

"Ferdinanda Schmidt."

"Is that right?"

He nodded. "Am I to send him this!"

"In my name."

She turned from him, and, with a modelling-tool in her hand, went up to

her work. Her father folded the letter and went towards the door. There

he remained standing. She did not look up, but appeared quite absorbed

in her work. His eyes rested on her with an expression of deep sorrow.

"And yet!" murmured he, "and yet!"

He closed the door behind him and walked slowly across the yard,

through whose wide, empty space the storm was raging.

"Deserted and empty!" he murmured, "all deserted and empty. That is the

burden of the song for her and me."

"Uncle!"

He started from his gloomy musings. Reinhold came hurriedly from the

house towards him--bareheaded and excited.

"Uncle, for heaven's sake!--the General has just left me. I know

all--what have you decided?"

"What must be."

"It will be the death of Ferdinanda."

"Better death than a life of dishonour."

He stepped past Reinhold into the house. Reinhold did not venture to

follow him; he knew that it would be useless.

BOOK IV.

CHAPTER I.

In a magnificent _salon_ of the Hôtel Royal--a few days later--the

Baroness Valerie von Warnow was pacing restlessly backwards and

forwards. She had, by Giraldi's advice, sent this morning to the

General's house to announce her arrival the evening before, adding that

she was unfortunately too much fatigued to present herself in person,

but hoped in the course of a few days, if not the next day, to make up

for her delay.

"You must not expose yourself to the affront of being refused

admittance," Giraldi had said: "I have every ground for suspecting that

he has laid himself out more than ever for his favourite part of the

knight with the helmet of Mambrinus; but virtuous fools are as little

to be depended upon as other fools; possibly the unhoped-for happiness

of seeing his _mauvais sujet_ of a son at last betrothed may have

softened him, and it will please him to act a part of magnanimity and

forgiveness. We shall hear how he takes your message, and we can take

our measures and make our arrangements accordingly."

Valerie knew too well that her brother acted no part, that he always

was what he seemed; and that if he ever forgave her, it would not be in

consequence of a momentary impulse, but from the conviction that she

could live no longer without his forgiveness, and that she deserved it

if the deepest remorse, the most ardent wish to atone, as far as was

possible for the past, entitled her to it. But that day would never

come; to-day, as ever, he would reject with cold politeness her attempt

at a reconciliation, would answer her through Sidonie that he regretted

to hear of her indisposition and hoped it would soon pass off, so that

she might as speedily as possible be able to resume her journey to

Warnow, which he trusted might be a prosperous one.

And only five minutes ago the answer had come; not in Sidonie's stiff,

formal hand, but in a small, graceful writing, the very sight of which

did Valerie good, even before, with eyes fixed and expectant, which at

last filled with tears, she read:

"Dear Aunt,--We are so glad that you are here at last! Papa, who sends

you his best love, has another meeting to attend this morning--the War

Office is like a beehive just now--but we, that is Aunt Sidonie and I,

will call upon you at twelve o'clock, if convenient to you, to ask you

how you are, and I especially to make acquaintance at last with a dear

relation, whom I have never seen, and whom I have often longed to see.

"Elsa.

"P.S. Ottomar had gone out when your note came: I will leave word for

him, and will send also to the Wallbachs, in case, as is probable, he

has gone there, in which case he will probably call upon you with Carla

and the Wallbachs."

"Dear, good child!" sobbed Valerie; "I have to thank you for his

yielding, I am sure! I can see it in your dear, loving words!"

She kissed the letter again and again. "Oh, if you knew how thankful I

am to you, if I could tell you so on my knees as before God. Be my good

angel. You do not know how much I need a good angel, with his pure,

strong hand to save me from this fearful slavery. But you will not be

able to save me if you would. What could you do against him? Your

innocence, your goodness, your wisdom--even your courage, and you must

be both wise and courageous to have braved and coaxed this from that

obstinate, unapproachable man--he would throw it all into the dust, and

tread it under his cruel feet, as he has thrown and trampled me in the

dust."

She wandered thus through the spacious room, now throwing herself into

an arm-chair because her limbs threatened to fail her, and the next

moment springing up and hurrying to the window to look at a carriage

which had just stopped before the hotel; then again stepping before one

of the large mirrors, and eagerly and anxiously examining her

countenance; it must not betray her excitement when he came in--a

quiver of the mouth, an unwonted degree of colour or of pallor in her

cheeks, a brighter glance, a fainter light in her eyes--he saw and

remarked everything, he had the key of her soul. How gladly would she

have received the dear writer alone, how gladly would she at least have

concealed the letter from him. But she dared not do even that; now less

than ever, when her lips must say yes, while her heart cried no; when

her lips must smile while hell raged in her bosom; when she must and

would practise the lesson that had been taught her.

She rang the bell and desired the servant who waited in the anteroom,

which connected her rooms and Giraldi's, to beg the Signor to come to

her for a minute. She gave the order in the most careless tone. The

man, a young Frenchman, whom Giraldi had engaged in Rome, had only been

a few weeks in her service; but he had no doubt been at least as long

in Giraldi's pay as his predecessors.

Hardly a minute had elapsed when she heard his step in the anteroom; he

was today, as ever, ready to fulfil her slightest wish. She passed her

hand once more hastily over her brow and eyes, and tried whether her

voice sounded natural. "Dear friend, I have----" François opened the

door to him at that moment. "Dear friend, I have already received an

answer from my niece, so extremely kind that it can only be a trap."

She had handed him the letter, which he appeared only to glance at,

though he would know it by heart a year hence, as Valerie said to

herself, and now, returning her the letter, sat down at the table by

her.

"The letter could only be a trap if you took it seriously, in which

case it would be a very dangerous one."

"What do you mean?"

"The young lady has written it on her own account; I mean without her

father's knowledge, who had probably left the house before she wrote

it."

"Impossible!"

"Why?"

"She would not have dared to do it."

"What does a girl not dare when she thinks it becomes her? Do not you

see that her hand faltered as she wrote the words, 'Papa, who sends you

his best love,' and only became steady again when she had got to the

truth, 'he has another meeting this morning?' It is interesting and

promising to see that the girl cannot even lie with the pen in her

hand. We shall be able to learn from her everything we want to know."

"But what do we want to know?"

"What?"

The faintest glimmer of a smile passed over Giraldi's dark eyes.

"Mi fai ridere, cara mia--we! Why, you do not yet know half."

"Then it must be your fault, my dear friend, for only telling me half.

What could I know without your telling me?"

He bent over her and took her hand which he pressed to his lips.

"Could I know anything, soul of my soul, that I should not immediately

impart to you, as the eye and the ear impart their impressions to the

mind, whose servants and slaves they are? And as faithful servants,

because they are faithful, do everything for the best interests of

their master, so I come this morning with the rich spoils of the four

and twenty hours that have passed since I was last with you, to lay

them at your feet and receive my reward in the smile of your lips."

"And why only this morning, faithless slave?"

"Yesterday evening, lady, my pockets were still almost empty; since

then----"

"A miracle has happened?"

"Scarcely less."

Giraldi looked at the clock. "Half-past eleven; I have just time; in a

quarter of an hour I expect Councillor Schieler. I only want to speak

to him for a few minutes--in continuation of a long conversation which

I had with him yesterday evening--so I shall be at hand when your

relations arrive, and shall be able to lighten for you the

unpleasantness of the first meeting."

"And the Councillor is the miracle-worker?"

"The Councillor is a useful tool--_voilà tout!_ so much the more useful

that he is used by many, and in his vanity and stupidity, which are not

the same thing, though they produce the same effect, always shows the

traces of the hand that has last used him, as a trophy of his supposed

importance and wisdom. It is as well that a certain person does not

appear quite conscious that such a tool cuts both ways, or he would be

more prudent in the use he makes of it. But that is not to the purpose.

For the rest, we owe him gratitude so far as one can owe gratitude to a

person who does one a great service without being aware of it. It was

he who made us aware of the favourable opportunity of selling the

property to Count Golm, when it became apparent to him and his company

that they could obtain the Count, whom they wanted particularly, for no

less a price. The Count snapped as eagerly at the tempting bait as they

snapped at the Count; they do not see the angler who looks complacently

on at the game, in order, when the right moment comes, to land the

silly fish with one jerk of his line on the dry land at his feet, where

it may gasp out its life. But this does not interest you."

"It does--it does!" exclaimed Valerie.

"I see by the absent smile on your lips and the fixed look of your eyes

that you have hardly heard me. Luckily I have something else _in

petto_, which may excite your interest."

"The miracle?"

"Not yet; I have only to tell you of natural events as yet. For what is

more natural than that Count Golm wishes to obtain as cheaply as

possible the property which he is so anxious to possess in order to

round off his estate and arrange his affairs? And how could he get it

cheaper than by receiving a third part as the dowery of his future

wife, and another third as the probable inheritance of the said wife,

that is to say both as good as given? There remains only one third,

which unfortunately appears, since yesterday, to be irrevocably lost.

Does my lady see now? It is only necessary to bring a little love into

the game, the interest of the women is excited at once."

Valerie's heart beat. How true had been her foreboding! The dear child,

whom she had but now looked up to as to an angel, in the next moment

drawn away, dragged down into the sordid game of intrigue by this

cruel, inexorable hand!

"Does Count Golm love my niece?"

"I did not say that; in fact, without wishing to detract from the

charms of the young lady, I am convinced that it is not the case. He

has only known her a very short time--since the General's journey at

the end of last month. Your North German country people are in general

not very subject to the dangers of a Romeo-like passion; besides, a too

strikingly material advantage is not very favourable for the blossoming

of the tender plant, love, and therefore the young lady is either

really affronted by the too evidently mercenary intentions of her

suitor, or pretends to be so, in order to keep herself disengaged in

another direction; I shall come to that presently. At least the Count

complains bitterly of her behaviour towards him, and threatens, to the

Councillor's alarm, to withdraw, only he has fortunately committed the

imprudence of accepting from the Councillor earnest-money for the

projected alliance in the form of a considerable advance, and is

consequently bound for the present."

Valerie's astonishment was great. Four and twenty hours had not yet

passed since Giraldi, on receipt of the letter in which Sidonie

informed them of Ottomar's betrothal to Fräulein von Wallbach, had

burst into a furious rage, although they had long foreseen and expected

this event; and to-day he appeared to encourage a second union, which

would destroy, if not his fixed plans, at any rate, hopes that he had

silently cherished and fostered.

Giraldi read these thoughts on her countenance. He continued with a

smile:

"I said, for the present, my dear friend; only till the simpleton--he

is a simpleton, I had already spoken to him yesterday evening before

you came--only till he has pulled the chestnuts out of the fire for us;

then he may go, and the more he burns his fingers the better pleased I

shall be. He must, however, for the present be bound to us, for the

following reasons: We do not require the consent of General von Werben

for the sale of the property, as he is already doubly outvoted by Herr

von Wallbach and our friend the Councillor; but what we do positively

want, if the bargain is to be struck, is the consent of the Government

to the making of the line; and, the Councillor is here again my

informant, if this consent is obtained, it will only be because the

Count is mixed up in the affair and rejoices in special protection in

certain high circles, whose influence in important ministerial regions

is particularly powerful just now. I am again unfortunate in not having

your attention."

"I am all attention."

"To reward you I will strike the chord of love again: it is for our

most pressing interest, and it is my most particular wish, that you

should casually--I mean at some opportunity which your cleverness will

readily seize upon--give your niece to understand that you think this

marriage a particularly suitable one; and only wish, in order to avoid

the appearance of desiring to derive a personal benefit from it in the

sale of the property, that the affair should not be at once made

public, or even settled--between ourselves let us say, not binding.

This will make the young lady pause. I want no more till we are clear

on the other side, and can then, as a reward for her obedience, perhaps

do something to help on her particular inclinations. Do you quite

understand?"

"Perfectly; to the minutest detail. You hinted before that my niece had

a real inclination in another direction that would not interfere with

us?"

"Which, in fact, when the time comes, I intend to forward by every

lawful means, if it were only in order to pay the General back in the

same coin for his past and present conduct towards a certain Signor

Gregorio Giraldi, and a certain Signora Valerie--widowed Frau von

Warnow, born Fräulein von Werben."

The man's lips smiled, but his black eyes glittered like the blade of a

dagger when it flashes out of the sheath. Valerie suppressed the

shudder that passed over her. She said, with a smile:

"I know your sagacity, your powers of divination; but here you have

really surpassed yourself. All that is now wanting is the name of the

happy man, where they first met, and when they last met."

Giraldi bowed.

"The name may wait, signora! But before I tell you more about your

charming niece, I must tell you a little anecdote about your excellent

nephew, which may serve as a proof of the reward which Providence

grants to those who trust in it."

"The miracle, then?"

"Decide for yourself."

The expression of his face had changed suddenly, the smile of

superiority had vanished and had given place to deep earnestness; in

the black eyes brooded melancholy night; even his voice sounded

different--softer, more fervent--as he now, in his native tongue (he

had hitherto spoken only German), continued in the tone of one who

wishes to speak with all possible calm and clearness on a subject that

moves him deeply.

"I went yesterday, after I had paid and received a few visits, to the

Exhibition, and turned at once into the sculpture gallery. I had

promised Guarnerio, Braga, and a few more of our friends in Milan and

Rome, who had sent works there, to go at once and look after them, to

see how they were placed, what impression they made, and whether the

German sculptors bore comparison with them. They are wretchedly placed,

and consequently produce little effect, and the German sculptors can

quite hold their own with them. Your countrymen have progressed; they

may boast of several talents of the very first order, such as Reinhold

Begas, Siemering, and a third, whose name I read for the first time on

a marvellous group of a Satyr, to whom a mischievous Cupid is holding a

looking-glass--Justus Anders. I beg you will remember the name; it will

appear again in my little history.

"Close to it, in a window, a life-sized figure first attracted my

attention, because it was one of the few that was in a really good

light. Doubtless a masterpiece, I thought, of which they are specially

proud. But I was mistaken, it was not at least a work of the highest

rank; finely conceived, but not so well carried out; a certain want of

freedom in the technical part, which betrayed the pupil who has not

long left school, and has for the first time attempted a higher flight.

The subject also was not one to excite my interest--a young shepherd

boy of the Campagna, in the ordinary costume, saying his Ave Maria,

with raised eyes and clasped hands; but nevertheless the statue

attracted me in a remarkable degree. Dare I acknowledge it? I thought I

saw myself five-and-twenty, thirty years ago, as I so often roved

through the Campagna and dreamed dreams over which I now smile; and

looked up ecstatically into the glowing sky, which in my thought was

peopled by bands of angels, and offered up ardent prayers, which I

believed would be heard. And more curious still, the next moment I saw,

not myself, but you, as I saw you on that memorable day when I was

presented to you and your Princess in the park--the two Leonoras as you

were then jestingly called--and with the first glance into your eyes I

knew that I had lost myself in you, without dreaming that at that

moment you were already lost to me."

He passed his hands over his downcast eyes, which he then, as if

accidentally, raised to her. She also had drooped her eyelids; but a

pink tinge was on her pale cheeks. Was it the reflection of the

sunlight of that evening? Giraldi hoped so; he did not suspect how

wonderfully mixed were the feelings that these memories awakened in the

heart of the unhappy woman. He hoped also that her eyes would be raised

to his with a glance in which might still gleam a ray of the old love:

but her eyelids were not raised. He must touch a deeper chord.

"And then again I saw neither you nor myself, or rather I saw us both

in a third figure, the peasant figure--in which, in spite of all, by

God's decree, and the will of the Holy Virgin, he perhaps now wanders

on the earth."

"No! no! no!" she cried.

She had started from her chair, but immediately sank back again, her

slender hands pressed to her brow and eyes, while repeated shudders

shook her tender frame.

"No! no! no!" she murmured again; "the righteous God could not permit

that!" Then recollecting how fearfully ambiguous her words were, she

added: "In peasant's dress! my son!"

"And mine!" said Giraldi softly. "Valerie, remember; is not life sweet

because it is life; because it is sunshine and the chirping of the

cicala, and moonlight, and the sound of the lute! Ah! how often I have

wished I had never seen any other light, I had never heard any other

music!"

"But he is no longer alive!" she exclaimed; "cannot be alive after all

we heard! Who was it then who proved it to me with such terrible

clearness at that time when I would have given all I had for a smile

from him?"

"At that time? and now no longer?"

A voice within her repeated, "No! no! no! for then the fetters which

bind you to him would be unbreakable!" But she did not dare to speak

the words, and once more bowed her head silently in her hands.

His dark eyes were fixed firmly on her bowed figure. "And now no

longer?" The question had not been answered. "Was it in reality only

the pain of the wound which had taken so long to heal, and which she

did not wish now to have torn open again? Was it the doubt that is

quenched in despair, or did treason lurk in her silence? Was it one of

those signs of which he had observed more than one lately; a sign of

silently planned desertion, of secret rebellion against his mastery?"

His dark glance sought the clock. "At this very moment I am still

working and planning for her. Let her beware lest the time come when I

do so for myself, and then necessarily against her! Let her beware of

saying 'Now no longer!'

"May I continue, Valerie?"

She nodded without speaking.

"I am almost afraid to do so. It is so seldom that I allow myself to be

carried away by my feelings, when sober reason, which smooths the

troubled work of life, should alone reign. I know it does not become

me."

In his voice there was not the slightest trace of the dark thoughts

that were passing through his mind: there was rather a tone of pain,

which he would have wished to conceal, a tone of reproach which resigns

its rights and asks for pardon.

"When after a little while I turned away from the statue, I saw a few

paces distant from it, leaning against the window-frame, a youth,

evidently the original of the figure; the same height, at that moment

even in the same attitude, with the same luxuriant curly hair, the same

brow and mouth, and especially the same eyes--magnificent deep black

velvet eyes, which were fastened with a curious expression of fixed

melancholy on his own likeness. I saw at the first glance that the

young man was an Italian, and in the first words he spoke I recognised

a native of the Campagna. They were spoken in answer to the question

whether the statue were his! It was not; he had only stood several

times as a model for it. 'But you are an artist?' I asked again. 'I do

not know,' he answered; 'I sometimes think so, and sometimes again I

think not. I only know one thing for certain, that I am miserable, the

most miserable of men.' He had murmured the last words to himself, as

turning suddenly from me he was about to hasten away. I do not believe

he meant me to hear them, but I had heard them and held him back by the

arm. 'We are fellow-countrymen,' I said, 'fellow-countrymen should

always stand by one another; doubly so in a strange land; trebly so

when it is a case of bearing misfortune or giving help.'

"He looked at me with his large eyes, which gradually filled with

tears. 'No one can help me,' he said. 'Even confession is a help, and

often the greatest, most effectual to a heavy-laden heart.' 'Are you a

priest?' 'Did the wounded man ask that who lay bleeding on the ground,

when the Samaritan bent charitably over him?' Two large tears ran down

his beautiful face, on which, while I spoke, the colour had come and

gone. I had won him over. He promised--as I could not wait then--to

meet me that evening in an Italian wine-shop, which he pointed out to

me. We could talk better in a wine-shop than in a smart hotel.

"He was awaiting me impatiently, when, having been delayed by your

retarded arrival, I at length went in search of him, drawn by that

mysterious power which often compels me, against my inclination, even

against my will, to do one thing or to leave another undone. So it was

in this case. My passing interest in the young man had already

vanished; my head was full of quite different things, so that I

listened to the history of his life, with which he thought it necessary

to preface his confession, with only half an ear. His name is Antonio

Michele, and he is the son of miserably poor vine-dressers, in, or in

the immediate neighbourhood of, Tivoli. A monk--his parents'

confessor--has always behaved with particular kindness towards him. I

suspect that the holy man is his father. Scarcely less poor than the

parents, he could do little more for his favourite than teach him to

read and write, and was forced in other matters to leave him to his

fate. It was that of other poor and handsome boys in the immediate

neighbourhood of Rome. He tended his goats on the hills of the

Campagna. Some wandering artists found him, and enticed him to the city

to act as model for their sketches. He idled about in the studios of

painters and sculptors, on the Scala di Spagna, and the Piazza

Barberini, till the day came when the fame of being the handsomest

model in Rome--to which he could justly lay claim--no longer satisfied

his ambition, and he wanted to become an artist himself. This was not

so easy as he appears to have hoped; still in the course of time he

might have become a good stone-carver, at least I conclude so, from the

fact that a German artist, who had known him in Rome, invited him two

years ago to come and work in his studio here. Antonio, who had no

longer anything to bind him to Rome and his native place--his parents

had fallen victims to the cholera in 1868--obeyed the call, provided

only with the good brother's blessing and money for his journey, obeyed

it as a man must obey his destiny.

"The artist in question was that very Justus Anders whom I mentioned

before as one of the most distinguished of your countrymen. Antonio,

however, does not consider him so, as he denies him originality,

inspiration, and in a word, all the higher qualities of an artist, and

describes him, on the other hand, as filled with envy and ill-will

towards all real geniuses, amongst which he doubtless considers himself

to hold the first place. I am of course unable to decide how far the

latter is true, but I suspect that an artist of such undoubted powers

as Anders judges the young man quite rightly, and that if he does not

allow him any great gifts, but continues to employ him as a mere

workman, he has good reason for so doing. At any rate, this supposed

neglect has not prevented our young countryman from remaining two years

with the envious master, probably, as I gather, in order to be near a

lady with whom he fell violently in love from the first moment in which

he saw her, and who, if his rapturous description may be trusted, must

be a marvel of beauty and grace.

"This lady is the daughter of a Herr Schmidt, who it appears carries on

a very flourishing trade in marble and marble goods. She is herself an

artist, and no insignificant one. The 'Shepherd Boy' came out of her

studio, which is only separated by a door from Signor Anders's studio.

I willingly spare you the details of the romance which was carried on

from one studio to the other. It appears that Antonio, in spite of his

assurances to the contrary, never had any cause to believe in the

fulfilment of his extravagant hopes; it appears however, also, that the

beautiful lady permitted the love of the handsome youth, perhaps only

because she could not prevent it, without giving importance to a matter

which was of no importance in her eyes; perhaps, also, because she

dreaded his passionate jealousy. Her fears were not unfounded. She

loved another, and was beloved by him. The immediate neighbourhood of

their houses was favourable to the secret of their relations, which was

only penetrated by Antonio's eyes, sharpened by jealousy. He followed

with the cunning and craftiness of a native of the Campagna their

secret traces, till, only a few days ago, he obtained undoubted proofs.

With the assistance of a man who, for some reason, was willing to make

common cause with him, he gave up these proofs into the hands of the

fathers, who, besides being in very different ranks of life and also

political opponents, as the accomplice knew, were divided by an old

personal enmity. The well-aimed blow took effect unexpectedly deeply,

on both sides. The fathers came to an explanation, at which were

probably some high words. An hour later the lady was found lying

insensible on the floor of her studio; another hour, and she was raging

in a violent fever. In the neighbouring house nothing can have been

known of this that day or the next, or a more suitable time would have

been chosen to send out the announcement of a betrothal which had been

long expected in the higher circles of society. The news of this

betrothal reached us at Munich, and was that of Fräulein Carla von

Wallbach with Lieutenant Ottomar von Werben."

"Good God!" exclaimed Valerie.

"It must have been God's will," answered Giraldi, with a dark smile;

"otherwise the affair, which has been so long delayed, would doubtless

have remained a little while longer in suspense. I should have made the

young man's acquaintance before the catastrophe, which is as much as to

say that the catastrophe would never have occurred. Instead of

interfering blindly with the flame of jealousy and the sword of

revenge, in a state of affairs that was so wonderfully favourable to

us, I should have recommended it to the protection of the Blessed

Virgin, and should have done, for my part, all that human wisdom can do

to help it on and bring it to a successful termination. I should

doubtless have succeeded, but some people would say it was not to be. I

do not say so. I know only one opponent before whom I sheath my weapon,

and that is Death. So long as I can count upon life I do count upon it,

I hope all from it; and for the present the beautiful Ferdinanda still

lives. What does my friend say to this second history?"

"That I wish my friend had known nothing of it."

"For what reason?"

"Because I know it will awaken in his restless mind a thousand hopes

that can never be realised; it will give him a world of trouble which

will all be useless."

"Not useless, if it be the will of the Blessed Virgin, and if my friend

does not refuse me her assistance."

"What can I do in this matter?"

"Almost everything; everything at least that can be done at present. I

mean, observe the parties in question, first and foremost the betrothed

couple; see how they bear their happiness, whether with the modesty

which would be appropriate under the circumstances in which it was

born, or with that scornful pride which, according to your proverb,

goes before a fall. A fugitive glance, a gesture, a turn of the

eyes--what will they not say to one who is so well prepared as my

talented friend? I recommend to her in particular the clever Carla, who

will meet her with open arms; _les beaux esprits se rencontrent_; but,

to return to my first story, and, like a good narrator, to weave it

properly into the second, I recommend also to your kind care the more

modest Elsa. With regard to this young lady, I have also a special

request to make, that you will observe whether she shows particular

interest when the name of a certain Herr Reinhold Schmidt is mentioned

in her presence."

"What new idea is this, my friend?"

"The last instalment of my news, for which I have to thank the dear

Councillor, who learnt it, in his turn, from Count Golm. A little

episode of jealousy, to which I attach particular importance, although

I am still rather behindhand as regards the details. Still it is an

interesting fact, that the gentleman in question, whose acquaintance

your niece only made quite lately on the much-talked-of journey, is a

cousin of the beautiful Ferdinanda, whose beauty had nearly made you

the richer by half a million. The jealousy of the nobleman, and the

angry contempt with which poor Antonio speaks of the Captain, lead me

to suppose that the cousins are not unlike one another. You will agree

with me that so delightful a family should be cultivated. I am dying to

make their acquaintance."

Giraldi had risen and gone a few steps to meet the servant, who had

just come into the room with a visiting card. "Ah!" he exclaimed,

taking the card from the waiter, "beg his Excellency to walk into my

room. I will follow in a minute."

He turned once more to Valerie.

"That is a happy yet unhappy coincidence--at the very moment when we

were expecting your relations. I could send away the Councillor if

necessary, the easier, that he is already behind his time. This

gentleman is one of those who must be received at all hours and under

all circumstances."

He held the card to Valerie. "Who is it?" she asked, reading a name

which in her bewilderment she could not recognise.

"But, cara mia!" exclaimed Giraldi, "who that is? The man who, half

blind as he is, sees clearer than most men do with both their eyes; the

man who, divested of all official authority, gives the Chancellor of

the German Empire more to do than the plenipotentiary of a large state

would do; the man, in a word, on whose feeble form the weight of the

struggle which we have to fight in Germany rests almost wholly! But I

am quite content that my lady should have no very lively sympathy for

the troubles of our Holy Church, if she will bear her own sorrows with

patience, if only the unhoped for, miraculous prospect of revenging the

injustice of long years, perhaps at one blow, can allure her! There are

thousands and thousands of brave men ready to take up the weapons which

fall from the hands of the exhausted champions of the Almighty; here in

this struggle I stand alone, and the Blessed Virgin will forgive me if

even her cause is not dearer to me than that of the mother of my

child!"

There was a metallic ring in the man's soft, melodious voice, a curious

fire burnt in his dark eyes, the slender elastic figure appeared to

grow taller, as he now stood drawn to his full height, with one arm

raised as if for the combat. Then, as if by magic, all the heroism

vanished from voice, countenance, attitude and gesture. He bent down to

the sitting figure, took her hand, on which he pressed his lips with

respectful tenderness: "Addio, carissima! addio, anima mia dolce!"

He was gone, again nodding a greeting to her at the door with a

graceful movement, which she returned with an obedient smile, then sank

back, as if shattered, into her seat.

"In vain! in vain!" she murmured. "I can never free myself, never. He

is a thousand times the stronger, and he knows it only too well! That

was the glance of the tiger at the deer that is in his grasp; those

were the eyes of the serpent, fixed on the bird in its nest. Lost!

lost! his sure prey, his obedient tool; forced to act, to speak, to

smile, to breathe as he will! Do I know my lesson? alas for me if I

have forgotten one word! He would find it out at once. 'Did you not see

that? Why where were your eyes? Did you not hear that? Why, my dearest,

it might have been heard with half an ear!' He, ah! he, with whom the

demons are in league, whom they all obey with all their might, for whom

they smooth his path along which he paces with the proud step of a

conqueror driving his victim before him! What else is that Antonio but

such a slavish demon, a messenger from hell, who is at hand when he is

summoned? Here I am, master; what does my master command? To sow

dissension between father and son, between father and daughter, between

the lover and the beloved? I have done it already, at least tried to do

it; pardon, master, your unskilful servant, who struck too soon with

the whip; teach me how to chastise with scorpions; I shall soon learn

in your service, I shall become worthy of you! And is there more to be

done; to draw from a maiden's heart its tender secret and to give it up

to you, that you may taint and defile it, may break and tear it to

pieces with your unhallowed, cruel hands? No, that is already cared

for; that is best understood by a woman, the well-trained accomplice of

your hellish art. It is true she is related to your victim, could, and

in the natural course of events ought to, be a second mother to her; so

much the better! She will be able the better to creep into her secrets,

the finer to spin threads in which the poor bird will flutter. Oh, my

God, my God! how boundlessly must I have sinned, that you will not

forgive me, that you have so utterly deserted me!"

She pressed her hands to her face, her heart beat violently; but the

weight did not become lighter, no tears came to cool her burning

cheeks. She sat thus alone, in the spacious, sumptuous room, solitary,

deserted, helpless, broken, longing for a word of comfort, of love--a

singular, touching, moving picture in the eyes of a young girl, who had

stood already for half a minute at the door, which she had gently

opened and shut behind her, fearing to approach nearer, to give

offence, to startle, and who now, casting timidity and fear from her,

following the impulse of her heart, hastened with quick steps to the

bowed-down form, and before the other could rise from her seat, or even

understand clearly what had happened, or how it happened, was kneeling

before her, and, seizing her hands, while she exclaimed: "Aunt, dear

aunt! here I am! Don't be angry, I have so longed to see you; have you

no kind word for me!"

Valerie could not speak; her eyes were fixed on the young girl's face,

which was glowing with tender shame and heartfelt pity. She suddenly

flung her arms round her like a drowning man, who in the whirl of the

stream grasps at the slender willow-stem; her head sank on the shoulder

of the kneeling girl, and the tears which had been so long shut up in

her troubled heart burst forth unrestrainedly.