RECONCILIATION.
Countess Frankenstein sat in the reception-room of her house in the
Herrengasse, in Vienna. Nothing had altered in this salon; the
prodigious events and the mighty storms that had shaken the power of
the House of Hapsburg to its very foundations could not have been
suspected from the aspect of this room when unoccupied, so complete was
its stamp of aristocratic immutability and perfect repose. There was
the same old furniture which had already served several generations,
now looking down from their faintly gleaming frames of tarnished
gilding upon the doings of their children and grand-children; there was
the high, wide chimney-piece, the flames from which had been reflected
in the bright, youthful eyes of those who long ago had become staid
grandmothers; there was the same clock with its groups of shepherds and
shepherdesses which had marked the moment of birth and the moment of
death of many a member of the family, and with equal calmness had added
second to second in hours of joy or hours of sorrow. Amongst all these
objects, lifeless indeed but full of memories, and accustomed to look
calmly on the happiness or sadness of generations passed away, sat the
living beings of the present, deeply moved and distressed by the
terrible and unexpected blow which had fallen on the House of Hapsburg
and on Austria.
The old Countess Frankenstein was grave and dignified as ever, but
there was a sorrowful expression on her proud, calm face as she sat on
the large sofa; beside her, dressed in black, sat the Countess Clam
Gallas, whoso tearful eyes were often covered with her embroidered
handkerchief. Opposite the ladies sat General von Reischach; his fresh,
healthy face glowed brightly as ever, the dark eyes looked out keen and
lively beneath his short white hair, but though this expression of
jovial cheerfulness could not be banished, there was beyond it a look
of melancholy grief. Countess Clara sat beside her mother, leaning back
in an arm-chair, and on her young and beautiful face lay a breath of
deep sorrow, for she was a true daughter of the proud Austrian
aristocracy, and she felt deeply and keenly the humiliation which the
ancient banners of the empire had suffered at Koeniggraetz, but her
melancholy was spread but as a light veil over the joy and happiness
that filled her dreamy eyes. Notwithstanding all the dangers of
Trautenau and Koeniggraetz, Lieutenant von Stielow had returned
unwounded; the war was now as good as ended, she feared no fresh perils
for him, and when the war was concluded, preparations for the marriage
were to be commenced.
The young countess sat in a dreamy reverie, pursuing the charming
pictures unrolled for the future, and hearing little of the
conversation carried on around her.
"This disaster is the effect of the incomprehensible regard shown to
the clamour of the lower classes," cried Countess Clam Gallas, in a
voice trembling with grief and anger. "Benedek received the chief
command because he was 'a man of the people;' the officers of noble
birth were thus hurt, injured, and passed over; we now see what all
this has led to. I have nothing to say against the rights of merit and
talent," she continued, "history teaches us that great field marshals
have been found among common soldiers, but people should not be pushed
forward who have no talent and whose only merit is courage, simply
because they are not of distinguished birth! And now they make the
aristocracy answerable for the defeat. Count Clam's treatment is an
insult to the whole of the Austrian aristocracy."
"You must not look upon it in that light, countess," said General von
Reischach; "on the contrary, I think the proceedings against Count Clam
Gallas will stop all evil mouths, for it will be an excellent
opportunity for stating the real causes of our defeat. When public
opinion, led on by a couple of journalists, had loaded the count with
reproaches, he was right in demanding a strict investigation, and it
was Mensdorff's duty to urge it upon the emperor. Let us wait the
result, it will show that the Austrian nobility is above reproach."
"It is very hard," cried the countess, "to be so personally affected
by the common misfortune!" And she wiped the tears that had again
flowed, with her handkerchief.
"Tell us, Baron Reischach," said Countess Frankenstein, after a short
pause, wishing to give the conversation a different turn; "tell us
about the King of Hanover, you once held a command in his service. I
have the greatest admiration for that heroic prince, and the deepest
commiseration for his unhappy fate."
"It is wonderful," said the general, "with what resignation and
cheerfulness the king bears his evil fortune, and the difficult
position he is now placed in. He is still full of hope; I fear it
deceives him!"
"Do you believe they will really venture to dethrone him?" cried the
Countess Frankenstein.
"Alas! I am quite sure of it," said General von Reischach.
"And I, alas! cannot doubt it, from what Mensdorff has told me," said
Countess Clam Gallas.
"And must Austria bear this?" cried Countess Frankenstein, a bright
flush of auger upon her usually calm face, and her eyes sparkling with
excitement.
"Austria bears everything, and will have to bear still more!" said the
general, shrugging his shoulders. "I see before us a long course of
misfortune, they will again experiment, and every fresh experiment will
pluck a jewel from our crown and a leaf from our laurels; I fear they
will pursue the path of Joseph II."
"God protect Austria!" cried Countess Frankenstein, folding her hands.
"Will the King of Hanover remain here?" she asked, after a short pause.
"It seems so," replied General von Reischach, "he lives in Baron
Knesebeck's house, in the Wallnerstrasse, Countess Wilezek has given
him up her apartments; but I have heard he will soon retire to the Duke
of Brunswick's villa at Hietzing. It would be much better for the king
to go to England, he is by birth an English prince, and if he succeeded
in interesting public opinion there in his behalf, which with his charm
of manner would not be difficult, England would perhaps help him, and
she is the only power who could help him; but he is disinclined, and
Count Platen appears very incapable of persuading the king to take any
decided course."
"Count Platen visited me," said Countess Clam Gallas; "he does not
believe in the annexation of Hanover."
"There are people who never believe in the devil, until he has got them
by the throat," cried Baron von Reischach: "there is General Brandis, a
plain old soldier, with a quick clear understanding, he would be much
the best counsellor for the king in a position in which rapid and firm
decision can alone avail, but he is not supported by Platen."
"How many disasters a few days have brought forth!" cried Countess
Frankenstein.
"Well," said General von Reischach, as he rose, "you must console
yourself with the happiness that blooms in your family; I would bet
anything," he added, laughing, "that Countess Clara's thoughts are
filled with pleasant pictures."
The young countess started from her dreams, a flying blush passed over
her face, and she said, laughingly,--
"What can you know about young ladies' thoughts?"
"I know so much about them," replied the general, "that I should not
venture now to bring my little countess a doll, she must have one in a
green uniform with a red plume."
"I want neither dolls nor anything else from you," replied the young
countess, pretending to pout.
General von Reischach and Countess Clam Gallas took leave.
Countess Frankenstein and her daughter accompanied them to the door,
and had only been a few moments alone when a servant entered and said:
"There is a gentleman here, who asks very pressingly for an interview
with the countess."
"Who is it?" she asked, with surprise, for she had few visitors except
those belonging to her own exclusive circle of society.
"Here is his card," said the servant, handing a visiting card to the
countess. "He assures me it is greatly to your ladyship's interest to
hear what he has to say."
Countess Frankenstein took the card, and read, with a look of
astonishment--"E. Balzer, Exchange Agent."
A deep flush passed over Countess Clara's face, she looked anxiously at
her mother and pressed her handkerchief to her lips.
"I cannot understand," said the countess, "what a person so entirely
unknown to me can want; however, let him come in!"
In a few moments Herr Balzer entered the salon. He was dressed in
black, and his common-looking face bore an expression of grave dignity
which did not appear to belong to it.
He approached the ladies with a manner in which the boldness of the
habitue of a coffee-house was mingled with the embarrassment of a man
who, accustomed only to low society, suddenly finds himself amongst
persons of distinction.
Countess Frankenstein looked at him with a cold, proud gaze, whilst
Clara, after her large eyes had taken in his vulgar appearance with a
hasty glance, cast them down and waited in trembling expectation for
the reason of this unexpected visit.
"I have consented to receive you, sir," said the countess, with easy
calmness, "and I beg you to tell me the important matter you have to
impart."
Herr Balzer bowed with affected dignity and said:
"A most melancholy affair, gracious countess, brings me to you,--an
affair in which we, you and I, or rather your daughter and I, have a
common interest."
Clara fixed her eyes upon him with great surprise and painful suspense;
the haughty look of the countess asked plainer than words, "What
interest can I have in common with this man?"
Herr Balzer saw this look, and an almost imperceptible smile appeared
on his lips.
"A very painful and distressing circumstance," he said slowly and
hesitatingly, "obliges me, your ladyship, to confide my honour to you,
and to consult with you, as to what is best to be done."
"I pray you, sir," said the countess, in an icy voice, "to come to the
fact you have to communicate. My time is much engaged."
Without paying any attention to this intimation, Herr Balzer proceeded,
apparently with some embarrassment, whilst twirling his hat in his
hands:
"Your daughter is engaged to Lieutenant von Stielow?"
The countess looked at him, almost rigid with amazement. She began to
fear she had admitted a madman. A slight shiver passed through Clara's
tender form; deep paleness overspread her features, and she did not
dare to lift her eyes to this man, for an instinctive suspicion warned
her he must be the bearer of something evil.
Herr Balzer drew a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his eyes.
In a theatrical manner he walked towards the countess, exclaiming,
whilst he stretched out his hand:
"Countess, you will understand me at once, you must understand me; I
trust my fate to your discretion,--only in common with yourself can
this melancholy transaction--"
"I must really beg you, sir," said Countess Frankenstein, looking
anxiously at the bell, from which she was separated by Herr Balzer, "I
must really beg you to state the facts."
"Herr von Stielow," said Balzer, again covering his eyes with his large
yellow silk pocket-handkerchief.
Clara folded her hands in breathless suspense.
"Herr von Stielow," repeated Herr Balzer, in a voice that appeared to
struggle for composure, "that volatile young man who is so happy in the
possession of so lovely, so worthy a fiancee," he bowed to Clara, who
turned from him with disgust, "this volatile young man dares to rob me
of my happiness, to destroy my peace--he keeps up a criminal
correspondence with my wife."
With a low cry, Clara sank down upon the chair before which she stood,
and wept silently.
Countess Frankenstein remained standing upright. Her eyes rested
fiercely and proudly upon this detestable messenger of evil, and in a
voice in which no emotion was perceptible, she asked:
"And how do you know this, sir? Are you quite sure?"
"Alas! only too sure," cried Herr Balzer, pathetically, again applying
his handkerchief to his eyes, which were quite red with repeated
rubbing.
"Some time ago," he said, "my friends warned me; but my confidence in
my wife--I love my wife, gracious countess: ah! she was my whole
happiness--prevented my heeding these warnings; then, too, Baron von
Stielow's engagement with the lovely countess"--he again bowed to
Clara--"was well known in Vienna; I felt quite safe, since I was
simple-hearted enough,"--he laid his hand on his black satin
waistcoat--"to believe such an error impossible."
"Well?" asked the countess.
"At last, by chance--oh! my heart will break when I think of
it--yesterday I discovered the frightful truth."
The countess made a movement of impatience.
He threw a side glance at the easy-chair, in which the younger lady sat
motionless, her face covered with her handkerchief, and with the malice
of vulgar natures who instinctively hate those of a higher grade, he
seemed disposed to prolong her torture.
"Amongst the letters brought to me," he continued, after some
hesitation, "there was one intended for my wife. I did not observe the
address, and I opened it, believing it directed to myself. It contained
the horrible, too certain proof of my misfortune."
Clara gave a low sob.
The countess asked with cold severity,--
"Where is this letter?"
Herr Balzer, with a deep, strongly marked sigh, felt in the breast
pocket of his coat, pulled out a folded letter, and gave it to the
countess. She took it, opened it, and read the contents slowly. Then
throwing it on the table, she said:
"What have you done?"
"Countess," cried Herr Balzer, in the same pathetic voice, "I love my
wife; she has greatly erred, it is true, but I love her still, and I
cannot give up the hope of reclaiming her."
The countess shrugged her shoulders, almost imperceptibly, and cast a
look full of contempt upon the exchange agent.
"I do not wish for a separation,--I would rather forgive her," he
continued, in a tearful voice; "and I have come, therefore, to speak to
you, countess, to consult with you,--to implore you to--"
"What?" asked the countess.
"You see, I thought," said Herr Balzer, turning his hat round and
round more quickly, "if you,--Vienna is now a very sad place to reside
in,--if you would go to your country estates, or into Switzerland, or
to the Italian lakes, far away from here, and if you would take
Lieutenant von Stielow with you, he would leave Vienna, and could not
continue to have any intercourse with my wife: I too would take her
away somewhere for a time. After his marriage with the lovely countess,
the young couple would naturally visit Baron von Stielow's family for a
time; he would forget my wife,--all would come straight, if we only
work together at the same plan!"
He spoke slowly, and with much hesitation, often interrupting himself,
and casting stolen looks now at the mother, now at the daughter. Before
he had finished speaking, Clara had sprung to her feet, her eyes, red
with weeping, were fixed on him with burning anger; and as he
concluded, she looked at her mother with anxious suspense, her lips
half opened, as if she almost feared her mother might not give the
right reply.
Countess Frankenstein drew herself up, with a movement full of pride,
and said in a tone of cold contempt:
"I thank you for your communication, sir; it has opened my eyes in
time. I regret I cannot assist you in the way you wish, to re-establish
your domestic happiness. You must understand it cannot be the task of a
Countess Frankenstein to cure the Baron Stielow of an unworthy passion,
nor can she consent to continue an engagement which the baron has not
respected. You must find some other means of reclaiming your wife."
Clara's eyes expressed her perfect approval of her mother's words; with
a proud movement she turned her back upon Herr Balzer, and, suppressing
her tears with a great effort, she looked out of one of the large panes
of glass in the high window of the salon.
Herr Balzer wrung his hands, as if in despair, and cried with
well-acted emotion:
"My God! countess, forgive me, if I thought only of my own sorrow and
grief, only of myself and my wife, and did not consider that
difficulty. I thought, too, you wished so much for this _parti_, which
is so excellent, and I hoped you would act in concert with me to bring
everything to a good end."
"A Countess Frankenstein is not in a position to wish for a _parti_
unworthy of her, and one her heart cannot approve," said the countess,
the cold calmness of her manner unchanged. "I believe, sir," she
continued, bowing very slightly, "that it is scarcely necessary to
continue this conversation."
Herr Balzer wrung his hands, and cried in a tone of despair:
"Oh, my God! my God! countess, what have I done! I now understand
perfectly that your daughter, under the circumstances, cannot continue
her engagement,--that I was foolish to hope to re-establish peace
through your assistance. Oh, my God, I had better have remained
silent!"
The countess looked at him inquiringly.
"Then," he continued, in the same tone, "everything might have gone on
well; now, oh, God! all that is over! You will break off the engagement
with Baron von Stielow, the whole world will hear of my misfortune,
there will be a dreadful scandal in Vienna, and I shall have to
separate from my wife. Ah! and I love my wife; I wish so to forgive
her, to reclaim her,--and I shall love her for ever!"
He paused for a moment, and cast a cunning look at the countess, whose
features had assumed an expression of deep thought.
Then he added still louder, and wringing his hands still more:
"Oh! my gracious countess, have compassion on me. I came to you in
perfect confidence to confide to you the frightful secret of my
misfortune. I see you cannot help me, as I hoped; be merciful to me,
and do not make it impossible for me to think of a way in which the
worst may be averted. Keep my secret. Herr von Stielow in his rage and
anger would revenge himself on me,--there would be nothing to restrain
him,--then there would be a dreadful scandal; that may be a matter of
indifference to you and your daughter, but to me and my wife--Oh! have
compassion on me!" and he made a movement, as if about to throw himself
at the feet of the countess. She still continued thoughtful.
"Sir," she said, "it is certainly neither my wish, nor my daughter's,
to discuss this disagreeable affair with Baron Stielow."
Clara turned her head towards her mother, and thanked her with a look.
"I shall break off Countess Clara's engagement with Herr von Stielow in
the quietest manner possible, and it will remain for you to do the best
you can for yourself--your secret is safe with me. Again I thank you
for your communication, however painful it was necessary, and has
preserved us from much worse pain in the future."
And she bowed her head in a way that showed Herr Balzer unmistakeably
he was dismissed.
He again held his handkerchief before his eyes, and said, in a whining
voice:
"I thank you, countess, I shall be eternally grateful to you; forgive
me. I beg the young lady's forgiveness, too, for being the messenger of
such evil tidings. But my lot is the worst. Oh! if you did but know how
I loved my wife!"
And as if overcome by the immensity of his grief, he bowed in silence,
and left the room.
He hastily brushed past the servant in the ante-room, and ran down the
stairs; as soon as he had left the room the grave and sorrowful
expression vanished from his face, a vulgar smile of triumph appeared
upon his lips, and he said to himself, with great satisfaction,--
"Well, I think I did my business very well, and richly earned the
thousand guldens my dearly beloved wife promised me, if I would free
her dear Stielow. Now she can catch him again in her net; she will
succeed, for she understands all that well, and then," he said, with a
broader grin of satisfaction, "I shall have the right of grasping
handfuls of the gold which this young millionaire will pour into her
lap."
With quick steps, he hastened to his wife, to tell her of the success
of his negotiation.
As soon as he left the room, Clara, without speaking a word, threw
herself into her mother's arms, sobbing aloud. After the restraint she
had put upon her feelings in the presence of a repulsive stranger, her
tears flowed freely, and relieved the oppression of her heart.
"Be strong, my daughter," said the countess, gently stroking her
shining hair. "God sends you a hard trial; but it is better to tear
yourself free from an unworthy engagement, than that this blow should
fall upon you later."
"Oh! my mother," cried the young countess, with the greatest grief,
"this love made me so happy; he assured me so strongly he was quite
free; I believed him so implicitly."
Suddenly raising herself from her mother's arms, she rushed to the
table where the letter lay which Herr Balzer had given the countess.
With a slight shudder, she seized the fatal letter, and read the
contents with large, dilated eyes.
Then she threw it from her with a look of horror, and sinking into a
chair, wept bitterly.
"Go to your room, my child," said the countess, "you need rest. I will
consider how matters can be arranged in the best and quietest way. The
baron's absence makes it easier. We will go into the country; I will
give the needful orders. Calm and compose yourself, that the world may
perceive nothing. It is our duty to bear our sorrows alone: only vulgar
souls show their troubles to the world. God will comfort you, and on
the heart of your mother you will always find a place to weep."
And gently raising her daughter, she led her from the salon to the
inner apartments, belonging exclusively to the ladies.
The regular strokes of the old clock's pendulum echoed through the
silence of the large, empty room, and the ancestors' portraits looked
down from their frames with their unchanging well-bred smile; their
eyes too, though they looked so calm and cheerful, had wept in days
long past, and with proud strength they had forced their tears back
into their hearts, to avoid the pity or the spiteful joy of the world,
and time as it rolled on, after hours of sorrow and pain, had brought
the moment of happiness. There was nothing now in this old home of an
old race.
The loud clatter of a sword was heard in the ante-room. The servant
opened the door, and Lieutenant von Stielow entered, fresh and
cheerful. He looked round the room with sparkling eyes. He turned with
disappointment to the servant.
"The ladies were here a moment ago," he said. "The countess had just
received a person on business; they must have gone to their own
apartments. I will send, and mention that Baron--"
"No, my friend," cried the young officer, "do not announce me; the
ladies will soon return, and I shall surprise them. Say nothing."
The servant bowed, and left the room.
The young officer walked several times up and down the room. A smile of
happiness rested on his face--the joy of reunion, after an eventful
separation, during which he had been threatened by death in many forms;
the anticipation of the joyful surprise he should behold in the eyes of
his beloved, all combined to fill his young, fresh heart with joy and
enchantment.
He went up to the low fauteuil, in which Countess Clara usually sat
beside her mother, and he pressed his lips against the back, where he
knew her head had rested.
Then he seated himself in the chair, half closed his eyes, and gave
himself up to a sweet, soft reverie, and the old clock's pendulum
measured the time the young man spent in happy dreams, with the same
regular stroke as it had numbered the moments of torture that had wrung
the heart of her who filled his dreams.
Whilst the young baron sat awaiting his happiness, Clara had gone to
her own apartment. It was a square room, with a large window, decorated
with grey silk. Before the window stood a writing table, and near it a
high pyramidal stand of blooming flowers, whose fragrance filled the
room. Upon the writing-table, on an elegant bronze easel, stood a large
photograph of her fiance; he had given it to her just before his
departure to join the army. In a niche in one corner of the room was a
_prie-dieu_ chair, and a beautiful crucifix in ebony and ivory, with a
small shell, containing holy water, hung upon the wall.
This room contained everything calculated to please a faultless taste,
and to enrich and embellish life. This room had been so full of
happiness and hope when the young countess left it,--and now? The
perfume of the flowers was as sweet as an hour ago; the sunshine fell
as brightly through the windows; but where was the happiness? where was
the hope?
Clara threw herself on her knees before the image of the crucified
Saviour, where she had often found comfort in the childish sorrows of
her early life. She clasped her beautiful hands in fervent prayer, her
tearful eyes hung on the image of the Redeemer, her lips moved in
half-uttered, imploring words; but not as before did peace and rest
sink into her soul.
A wild storm of various emotions raged within her. There was deep
sorrow for her lost happiness, there was defiant anger at the deceit
that had played upon her love, there was swelling pride at the contempt
shown to her feelings, and finally there was bitter, jealous hatred of
the unworthy being to whom she had been sacrificed. All these emotions
surged and raged in her head, in her heart, in her veins; and the
prayer her lips pronounced would not arise to heaven, the peaceful
light of believing self-sacrifice would not kindle within her.
She stood up and sighed deeply. Not grief, but anger flashed in her
eyes. Her white teeth bit into her lip, she paced up and down the room,
her hands pressed upon her bosom, as if to still the raging storm
threatening to break her heart.
Then she stood still before her writing-table, and looked angrily at
von Stielow's portrait.
"Why did you come into my life," she cried, "to rob me of my peace, and
to make me purchase a few hours' happiness with such frightful
tortures?"
Her looks rested long on the portrait. Slowly and gradually the angry
expression passed from her features; a mild, sorrowful light shone in
her eyes.
"And my short happiness was so fair," she whispered. "Is it then
possible that those true eyes could lie? Is it possible that at the
very time---"
She sank into a chair near her table, and half involuntarily following
the sweet habit of the last short time, she opened an ebony casket,
enriched with mother-o'-pearl and gold.
In this casket were the letters her lover had written to her from the
camp. They were all short, hurried notes, many of them very dirty from
the numerous hands they had passed through before they reached her. She
knew them all by heart, those love greetings that said so little and
yet so much, that she had waited for with such longing, that she had
received with such exulting joy, that she had read and read again with
such happiness.
Mechanically she took one of the letters, and allowed her eyes slowly
to follow the lines.
Then she threw away the paper with a movement of horror.
"And with the same hand," she cried, "with which he wrote these
words--" She did not finish the sentence, but gazed gloomily before
her.
"But is it true?" she cried, suddenly; "can it not be malice, envy? Oh,
I knew that this woman was once no stranger to him. I have not seen the
writings side by side to compare them. Good heavens!" she cried, with
horror, "that wretched letter lies in the drawing-room; if one of the
servants----" And hastily springing up, she hurried from the room,
glided swiftly through the intervening apartments, reached the
drawing-room, and advanced at once to the table where the fatal letter
lay between two vases of flowers upon some tapestry work.
The sound of her footsteps aroused the young officer from his reverie.
He rose hastily from his half-recumbent position, in which he had been
completely concealed by the high back of the chair, and he saw her his
dreams had pictured standing really before him, her face expressing
indescribable agitation.
It would be impossible to find words to tell the feelings that passed
through the young girl's mind in one moment. Her heart beat high with
joyful surprise when she saw her lover so unexpectedly; but the next
instant bitter sorrow rushed upon her as she remembered she was for
ever separated from the happiness that had been hers. Her thoughts grew
indistinct, she had neither the strength to speak nor to withdraw, she
stood motionless, her large dilated eyes fixed upon him whom she so
unexpectedly beheld.
With one bound the young man was beside her, he opened his arms as if
about to embrace her, but quickly recollecting himself, he sank down on
one knee, seized her hand, which she yielded involuntarily, and
impressed upon it a long, warm, and affectionate kiss.
"Here, sweet joy of my heart, star of my love," he cried, "here is your
true knight again; your talisman has been my protection; the holy light
of my star was stronger than all the threatening clouds that surrounded
me."
And with bright eyes, filled with happiness, love, and adoring
admiration, he looked up at her.
She gazed at him, but there was no expression in her widely opened
eyes, it seemed as if all her blood had flowed back to her heart, as if
all her ideas, all her powers of will, were banished by the
overwhelming feelings of the last few moments.
He was rejoiced at this motionless silence, which he ascribed to
surprise at his sudden return, and he said:
"General Gablenz has been sent for by the emperor, and he brought me
here, so that I greet my darling sooner than I expected!" And taking
from his uniform a gold case set with a C in brilliants, he added with
a happy smile, "here is the talisman from my lady's hand, which
preserved me through every danger; it has rested on my heart, and it
can tell you that its every beat has been true to my love."
He opened the case, and in the interior, upon blue velvet beneath a
glass setting, lay a faded rose.
"Now," he cried, "I need the dead talisman no longer, I see my living
rose blooming before me!"
He stood up, gently laid his arm around her shoulder and pressed a kiss
upon her brow.
A slight shudder passed through her, her eyes sparkled with anger and
contempt, a brilliant red glowed on her cheeks.
With a hasty movement she tore herself free.
"Baron," she cried, "I must beg--you surprise me!"
She stammered; her lips trembled, she could not find words to express
what she thought and felt, she could not say what she wished to say.
After a moment's silence she turned to leave the room.
The young officer stood as if struck by lightning, her strange words,
the expression on her face, told him that something must have taken
place to cause a breach between him and his love, but it was impossible
for him to form any clear idea as to what it could be, and he looked at
her in blank amazement. But when she turned to leave him and had
actually reached the door, he stretched out both his arms towards her,
and cried in a voice so full of love and regret, of grief and inquiry,
that it could only proceed from the deepest and truest feeling,
"Clara!"
She started at this voice, which found an echo in her heart, she stood
still, her strength left her, she tottered.
He was beside her in a moment, he supported her, and led her to an
easy-chair, in which he gently placed her.
Then he knelt before her and cried in an imploring tone, "For God's
sake, Clara, what has happened, what distresses you?"
She held her handkerchief before her eyes and wept, struggling
violently for composure.
The door opened, and Countess Frankenstein entered.
She looked at the scene before her in utter amazement.
Herr von Stielow sprang to his feet.
"Countess!" he cried, "can you explain the riddle I find here--what has
happened to Clara?" The countess looked at him with grave severity.
"I did not expect you to-day, Herr von Stielow," she said, "or I should
have given orders for you to be told at once that my daughter is
suffering, and very unwell. We must leave Vienna for a long time; and I
think under the circumstances it would be better to annul the plans we
had formed for the future. My child," she said, turning to her daughter
who sat still, weeping quietly, "go to your room."
"Clara ill?" cried the young man in the greatest alarm. "My God, how
long has this been so? but no, no, something else has happened. I beg
you----"
Suddenly the young countess stood up. She raised her head proudly,
fixing her eyes firmly on Herr von Stielow, then turning to her mother
she said,--
"Chance, or rather Providence has brought him here, there shall be
truth between us; I at least will not be guilty of the sin of
falsehood." And before the countess could say a word she had walked to
the table with a firm step, seized the letter still lying there, and
with a movement full of proud dignity handed it to the young officer.
Then she again burst into tears and threw herself into her mother's
arms.
Herr von Stielow glanced at the paper.
A deep blush overspread his face.
He ran his eyes hastily over the writing, then casting his eyes on the
ground, he said:
"I do not know how this letter came here, yet I thought, from a few
words Clara once said, that she knew of an error into which I fell: I
thought that in spite of the past she gave me her heart, and I cannot
understand----"
Clara rose and looked at him with flaming eyes.
"In spite of the past!" she cried; "yes, because I believed your word,
that all this past was at an end; I did not know that this past was to
share my present!"
"But, my God!" exclaimed Herr von Stielow, looking at her with great
surprise, "I do not understand; how can this old letter----"
"An old letter?" said the Countess Frankenstein severely, "it is a week
old."
"It bears the date of your last letter to me!" cried Clara.
Herr von Stielow looked at the paper with amazement.
His eyes opened widely. He stared blankly at the letter which he held
motionless before him.
At last he turned to the ladies with sparkling eyes, and a face much
heightened in colour.
"I know not what demon has been at work--I know not who desires to tear
asunder two hearts that God destined for each other. Countess," he
said, "you owe me the truth, I demand who gave you this paper?"
Clara's eyes were fixed anxiously on the young man's face, her bosom
rose and fell.
The face of the countess expressed the repugnance she had felt during
the whole conversation; she replied coldly:
"Your word of honour to be silent!"
"I give it," said Herr von Stielow.
"Then," said the countess, "this letter accidentally fell into the
hands of this lady's husband, and he----"
"Deceit! shameful deceit!" cried von Stielow, half angrily, half
joyfully, "I do not yet quite see through it, but be it as it may,
countess--Clara--this letter is a year old; see, if you look closely,
the date is freshly written. This is a scandalous intrigue!"
He handed the letter to the countess.
She did not hold out her hand to take it. She looked at the young man
coldly. In Clara's eyes gleamed a ray of hope; it is so easy to a
loving heart to believe and to trust.
Herr von Stielow threw down the paper.
"You are right, countess," he cried, drawing himself up proudly; "such
proofs are for lawyers!"
Then he approached Clara, knelt on one knee before her, drew the case
with the faded rose from his uniform, and placed his hand upon it.
"Clara," he said in an earnest loving voice that came from the depth of
his soul, "by the holy remembrance of the first hours of our love, by
this talisman, which has been with me through all the dangers of
battle, I swear;--this letter was written a year ago, before I ever saw
you." He raised his hand and lightly touched her breast with his finger
point. "By your own pure noble heart I swear that no thought of this
erring meteor, whose rays once led me astray, has ever dwelt within me,
since your love arose to be the pure star of my life--your love to
which I will be true to death!"
He stood up.
"Countess," he said in a calm grave voice, "I give you my word of
honour as a nobleman; by the name which my ancestors have borne with
honour from generation to generation for centuries, by my sword which I
used in those dreadful days without reproach, against the enemies of
Austria--the date of this letter is false. Since Clara gave me her love
I have never exchanged a syllable with this woman, I have never thought
of her, except in repentant remembrance of a past error! I do not ask
if you believe my word," he proceeded, "a Countess Frankenstein cannot
doubt the word of an Austrian nobleman, nor think he would purchase a
life's happiness by a lie. But I ask you," he said in a warmer tone,
turning to Countess Clara, whose eyes were beaming with happiness, "I
ask you if you believe my heart is yours without reserve or doubt? if
now that the past is unveiled between us, and we have spoken of it, you
will continue to be the star of my life, or whether in darkness I must
pursue a solitary path, which my hopes once promised should be full of
sunshine and flowers?"
With downcast eyes he waited in silence.
The young countess looked at him with the deepest love. A smile of
happiness hovered on her lips. With a light step she glided towards
him; stood still before him, and with a charming movement held out her
hand.
He raised his eyes, and saw her gentle sparkling looks, her lovely
smile, her slight blush. He opened his arms quickly and she leaned
against him, and hid her face on his breast.
The countess looked at the beautiful pair with a mild and happy smile,
and a long silence prevailed in the lofty room.
But the old clock measured these moments with its calm pendulum, the
moments follow each other with eternal regularity, and never change for
the short joys and long sorrows which form the life of man on earth.
When Clara returned to her room late in the evening, she laid the
golden case with the faded rose at the foot of the crucifix, and now
her prayers went up as lightly winged to heaven as the perfume of
spring flowers, and in her heart as pure and wondrous melodies arose,
as the song of praise of the angels who surround the throne of eternal
love.