THE SICK AND WOUNDED.
In a somewhat large salon adjoining the bedroom of his comfortable
bachelor apartments, in one of the old-fashioned houses of a quiet part
of the town, Lieutenant von Stielow, the morning after his return, lay
upon a large sofa covered with dark red silk.
Half-closed curtains of the same colour hung before the window,
admitting a subdued light into the room, where complete quiet
prevailed, only broken from time to time by a carriage belonging to one
of the aristocracy rolling swiftly past.
The young man wore a wide morning wrapping coat of black silk, with
scarlet collar and facings; beside him stood a small table with a
beautiful silver tea service; he slowly smoked a short chibouk, from
which the fragrant clouds of Turkish tobacco floated about the room,
and his features expressed perfect happiness and calm content. After
the long privations and fatigues of camp life, the young officer for
the first time enjoyed the quiet and rich comfort around him, and with
happy looks he greeted everything; the numerous objects which his room
contained, the paintings, the engravings, the curious arms, the bits of
old Dresden china, in short all the thousand things which the good
taste or passing fancy of a wealthy and cultivated young man collects
in his rooms.
All this, which he had formerly been so accustomed to that he scarcely
deemed it worthy of a glance, now smiled upon him with the charm of
novelty; for so long his eyes had only seen pictures of privation, of
horror, and of death, that the surroundings of his previous life met
him with a greeting full of charm; then he thought of his love, of the
dangers which had surrounded him upon the battle-fields, of the
frightful peril which had threatened his young pure love from wicked
machinations, of his happy preservation amidst the bullets and swords
of the enemy, of the good fortune that had brought him back at the
right moment to destroy those machinations, finally, of the hopes which
were now his own without an obstacle. No wonder that his eyes beamed,
that his lips smiled, and that the world looked as fair, as bright, and
as charming as it only can appear to a young heart who sees itself
possessed of everything that can make life one sweet enjoyment.
He had promised the Countess Frankenstein to take no step against the
person who had made the low attempt on her daughter and himself. "Let
us never again speak of those creatures, or remember anything of the
affair, except to thank God who brought their wickedness to shame,"
said Clara, with a gentle smile; and so great is the elasticity of a
heart of one-and-twenty, so great the conciliatory power of happiness,
that he scarcely remembered the circumstance which had threatened the
holiest feelings of his heart, except from the sweet feeling of higher
enjoyment which lies in the full possession of that which you feared to
lose.
The door opened quickly and a servant entered with a disturbed and
frightened face.
"My lord baron," he said with some hesitation, "I must--"
The young officer turned his head and looked at him inquiringly; but he
could not finish his sentence, for a slender female form in a light
morning dress hastily advanced through the half-open door, and with a
quick and decided movement pushed the servant aside. Her face was
concealed by a thick veil hanging from her small round hat.
Herr von Stielow rose and walked towards his visitor with an expression
of great surprise, whilst he dismissed the servant by a sign, and he,
by shrugging his shoulders endeavoured to signify that he had not been
able to announce this visitor to his master in the usual way.
Scarcely had the door closed than the lady threw back her veil. Herr
von Stielow beheld the beautiful features of Madame Balzer. She was
pale, but her cheeks were tinged with a light rosy hue, her large eyes
glowed with deep passionate fire, upon her slightly parted lips lay an
expression of bashful shame, mingled with a look of firm and energetic
decision. She was wonderfully beautiful, more charming in this plain,
almost grisette-like toilette, than in the rich and recherche elegance
which usually surrounded her.
The young man looked at the well-known face before him with blank
amazement, almost with fear; for it was the last thing he expected to
see.
"Antonia!" he exclaimed in a low voice.
"Your lips, then, have not forgotten that name," she said, fixing her
sorrowful eyes upon him; "I feared that all, all remembrance, had
vanished from your heart, even the name of her whom once you loved, and
whom you now despise,--condemn unheard."
Stielow was so amazed, so discomposed by this visit, that he still
stood opposite to her without uttering a word: a flash of anger, of
defiance had shone in his eyes, but it had disappeared--how could anger
be maintained against this gentle humility, this look so full of
entreaty and of sorrow? He gazed at her vacantly, contradictory
feelings struggling in his breast.
"You have condemned me," she continued in that soft melting voice, only
bestowed upon a few women, and which touches the heart of the listener
like a caress, "you have turned from me without asking a word of
explanation, and yet you loved me once, and yet," she whispered
hesitatingly, as she cast down her eyes, and a rosy blush passed over
her face, "yet, you must have known that I loved you!"
Herr von Stielow still found not a word to oppose to these looks, this
language; he almost felt he was really hard and cruel, and it needed
the full recollection of the evening before, to enable him to maintain
calm composure before this woman.
Antonia came one step nearer, and fixed her eyes upon him, with a
melancholy expression of unutterable tenderness. "My love," she said in
her soft voice, "was as pure, as confiding as a young maiden's, yet
fiery and glowing as the wine of the south, and it filled my whole
soul, it had enchained my pride. I lay at your feet, as a slave at the
feet of her lord!"
Tears glittered in her lovely eyes.
"I beg you--" said von Stielow, feeling quite distracted. "Why these
declarations about the past, now? Why this painful scene?"
"You are right," she replied, and a proud flash shone in her eyes
without dispersing the melancholy that veiled them, "you are right. I
ought not to touch upon that past, but there is a nearer past of which
I must speak, which leads me hither."
"But--" said von Stielow.
Without heeding him she continued:
"Before you, I had no longer pride, no longer a will, it is true; but
you coldly and cruelly forsook me"--she placed her hand upon her heart,
and pressed her lips together. "You humiliated me, and my pride again
arose. I wished to hate you, to forget you," she added in a hoarse
voice: "but all the nobler feelings of my heart rebelled against it. I
could not do it," she said in trembling tones; "and my pride said,
'Though he no longer loves, he shall not despise!'"
Herr von Stielow's face had grown calm. He looked at her coldly, a
scarcely perceptible smile upon his lips.
"You had a right," she added, "it is true, to think me false, and to
believe yourself the toy of a coquettish whim, perhaps even worse; you
shall believe it no more, the memory of me shall not be mingled with
contempt."
"Let us leave the past," said he; "I assure you--"
"No," she cried vehemently, "you shall hear me,--if the past gives me
no other right, it gives me this, to demand a hearing!"
He was silent.
"You know," she proceeded, "what my life was; with a heart full of
love, with a spirit that craved and strove for higher things, I was in
early life fettered to the husband with whom you are acquainted. He
himself encouraged a crowd of young men around me. Count Rivero came
near me, I found in him the richest genius,--the satisfying of all my
wishes, I believed I loved him," she added, casting down her eyes, "at
least he brought light and interest to my life. Is that a crime?"
Without waiting for an answer she went on passionately:--
"Then I learned to know you, I discovered my mistake, my heart told me
that before only my mind had been satisfied. I now felt how this new
feeling had taken deep root in my inmost life. Let me be silent about
that time," she said with quivering lips, "recollections that I cannot
stifle would unnerve me. I struggled long and severely," she continued
in a calm voice, as if subduing her emotion by a mighty effort; "ought
I to have spoken to you of the past? I did not dare, my love made me
cowardly; I feared to lose you. I feared to see a cloud upon the brow I
loved. I was silent; I was silent because I feared. Rivero was away. I
ought to have broken with him. Oh!" she cried in a voice of pain,
whilst her whole form trembled, "you know the humiliating position in
which I was placed; the man whose name I bear, my husband, was under
heavy obligations to him; under the circumstances I could not venture
suddenly and quickly to cease our correspondence. I awaited his return.
I knew him to be noble and generous. I wished to tell him all, to
explain,--then there was that unhappy meeting, the intercourse which I
wished quietly and prudently to drop, was torn asunder--oh! what I have
suffered!"
Herr von Stielow was moved, and looked at her with compassion.
"If I have erred," she proceeded, "I am still not so guilty as I seem,
my heart has never sinned against the truth of my love. I swear to you,
since the day I said, 'I love you'"--she pronounced the words with a
strange melting charm--"every throb of my heart, every feeling of my
soul has been yours; my first conversation with the count was an
explanation with regard to you."
She stepped nearer to him, she lifted her folded hands and gazed up at
him with a look of inexpressible love, and said:
"I have not betrayed my love. I have not forgotten it. I cannot forget
it. I have come because I must make this explanation, because I cannot
bear"--and here her voice seemed choked with tears--"that you should
despise me, that you should quite forget me," she added lower still, "I
cannot believe, that all, all has vanished from your heart. I cannot
part from you without telling you that if ever your heart should feel
lonely you have a friend who never, never can deny her first love."
She looked unspeakably lovely as she stood there before him, so humble,
so gentle, her lips slightly parted, her eyes, though suffused with
tears, still glowing with a tender fire, her figure languidly bent
forward.
The young man looked at her with great compassion, the sound of her
voice, the magnetic brightness of her eyes, had aroused within him
memories of the past. But the mild gentle expression vanished from his
face, his eyes flashed and a scornful smile appeared on his lips.
"Let us leave the past," he said coldly and politely. "I have not
reproached you, and I will not reproach you, I wish you----"
She looked at him sorrowfully.
"Then my words have been in vain," she said, sadly, "you do not believe
me----"
An angry flash passed over his face.
"I believe you," he said, "and I do not want your words, for thank God!
I know everything. I think this conversation upon the earlier past will
come to an end when I give you a proof that I am acquainted with your
last proceeding."
And with a quick angry movement he turned to a casket standing upon a
console table before a mirror, opened it and held towards her the
letter she had sent by her husband to the Countess Frankenstein.
"You see," he said, "I know the way in which you use the souvenirs of
the past against the present."
She shrank back, as if struck by lightning. The paleness of death
overspread her face--her features were convulsed, her eyes fixed
immovably upon the paper.
"I think this will bring our conversation to an end," he said, with a
bitter smile.
A deep crimson flush spread over her face, her limbs trembled, burning
passion shone in her eyes.
"No," she cried in a wild voice, "no, it is not at an end--it shall not
be at an end!"
Herr von Stielow slightly shrugged his shoulders.
"It shall not be at an end," she cried in trembling excitement,
"because I love you, because I cannot leave you, because you cannot be
happy with that woman, to whom you will give your name, but whose cold
heart will never feel for you the fiery glow that streams through
mine."
"Madam, you go too far," said Stielow, and an expression of repugnance
and contempt appeared upon his face.
"You deceive yourself," she said, whilst her lips burned a rich carmine
and her feverish eyes lighted up her pale face. "I know how warmly your
heart has beaten for me, it cannot be happy in a conventional love, in
lukewarm kisses meted out by custom."
He half turned from her.
"You go too far," he said again.
"Hear me, my own, my love," and she sank down at his feet stretching
out her arms towards him; "hear me, and do not despise me, I cannot
live without you. Give your hand," she cried in a voice full of
passion, "to that woman, give her your name, but leave me your heart:
the time will come when you will long for happiness, then come
back to me, to dream, to love; I ask for nothing,--nothing, I will wait
humbly, I will live upon the remembrance of the quiet happiness of the
past during the long days when I do not see you,--do all that you
will,--only love me."
She seized his hand and pressed it to her glowing lips, then her head
fell back a little, her half-closed eyes looked at him imploringly, the
warm breath from her mouth seemed to surround him with an enchanted
atmosphere of love and passion.
A slight shudder passed through him; he closed his eyes for a moment.
Then he looked at her with calm friendship, and holding her hand firmly
he gently raised her.
"Antonia," he said quietly, "I should be unworthy to wear a sword if I
gave you any answer but this; let everything be forgotten and forgiven
that belongs to the past, no other remembrance will abide with me but
that of friendship, and if you need a friend, you will find one in me."
And he let go her hand after pressing it gently.
Was it the tone of his voice, was it the quiet pressure of his hand,
that convinced her quick womanly perceptions that she had lost his love
for ever? She stood motionless, the passionate tears left her eyes, a
flash of hatred gleamed in her look, but she hastily concealed it
beneath her downcast eyelids.
With a quiet movement she drew down her veil, and said in a voice that
retained no traces of its former emotion:
"Farewell; may you be happy!"
She turned to the door.
Stielow accompanied her silently and gravely through the ante-room to
the outer door of his apartments, which a servant hurried forwards to
open.
She went out with hasty footsteps.
The young man returned and sank into an arm-chair as if exhausted.
"Was it real, or was it acting?" he whispered thoughtfully.
"No matter," he cried after a short consideration, "it does not become
me to judge her--may she find happiness!"
And quickly springing up he said, whilst his face cleared up:
"This was the last cloud that threatened to veil my star."
He rang for his servant, made a hasty toilette, and drove in his cab to
the house of the Countess Frankenstein.
In the afternoon the most varied life filled the wide alleys of the
Prater. Upon the broad turf beneath the trees of this enormous park
some of the cavalry regiments recalled to Vienna were still encamped,
and the different scenes of camp life were picturesquely displayed.
There stood the horses picketed, as if on actual service, neighing and
whinnying with impatience, here lay a circle of soldiers around a
smouldering fire, on which, in the field kettle, their meal was
cooking; booths were erected in which food and drink, the Vienna
sausage, and camp beer, were offered for sale; and the Viennese
streamed in and out in countless numbers. Now that the real war was
over with its fears and anguish, they liked to gaze here on the last
picture of it, which only offered to the eye its romantic charm, and
not its dreadful earnest. But the groups of lookers-on were the
thickest around an open space girt in by tall trees, where the brown
sons of Hungary were displaying their fantastic national dance--the
Czardas. A man played, upon an old violin, one of those peculiar
melodies, half wailing, half wild dithyrambic movements, which even
when thus executed sounds upon the ear with a strange mysterious charm;
the others pursued a peculiar dance, with its strange pantomimic
evolutions, sometimes jingling their spurs together, sometimes stamping
on the ground with their feet, sometimes twisting the body into strange
but always graceful attitudes.
Amongst one of these groups stood old Grois, the comic actor Knaak, and
the ever-merry Josephine Gallmeyer.
"Pepi's" beautiful eyes sparkling with fun and mirth attentively
followed all the movements of the Czardas. She slightly nodded her
head, and beat time with her hand, to the sharply accentuated music.
"Look, old Grois," she then said, turning to her companion, who watched
the moving picture with sad and doleful eyes, "those are capital
fellows; I should like to choose a sweetheart from amongst them, they
please me better than all our _fade_ cavaliers put together."
"Yes," said the old actor gloomily, "there they dance, and when it came
to fighting for Austria they let them stay behind, eighty regiments of
our glorious cavalry have never been in action; it almost breaks one's
heart to think of it all."
"Fie! old blood-thirsty tiger," cried the Gallmeyer; "let us be glad
they are still left to dance, and that they have not been under those
cursed needle-guns--there would not have been many of them left!"
"Bah! needle-guns!" cried old Grois. "Now it is to be the needle-guns
that have done everything; at first everyone said it was the generals'
fault, and now the generals say it was the needle-guns. I hold to it
they were right at first, and that if the Prussians had had our
generals, their needle-guns would not have helped them much."
"Happy is he who forgets what cannot be mended," cried Fraeulein
Gallmeyer; "nothing can be done against the Prussians, they surpass the
gods!"
"Why this sudden admiration for the Prussians?" asked Knaak.
"Well, you know," said the Gallmeyer, "it is true they do surpass the
gods, for one of our poets who has written such lovely roles for my
friend the Wolter says," and here she placed herself in a comically
pathetic attitude, and imitating exactly the voice and manner of the
great actress of the Burg Theatre, repeated: "'Against folly even the
gods strive in vain!' Well, the Prussians have not striven against
folly in vain!" she cried, laughing.
"Pepi," said old Grois in a grave voice, "you can say what you please
about me, and the rest of the world; but if you make the misfortunes of
my dear Austria the subject of your wit, we shall quarrel!"
"That would be frightful!" cried the Gallmeyer, "for I should then in
the end be forced"--and she looked at him with a roguish smile.
"Well, what?" he asked, already pacified.
"To strive in vain with old Grois," she cried, and let just the tip of
her tongue appear between her fresh lips, whilst she twirled round on
the point of her toe.
"And did I speak sensibly to such a creature?" cried the old actor,
half displeased, half laughing.
The Czardas was at an end, and the different groups moved on.
"See," said Knaak, "there is our friend Stielow and his beautiful
fiancee."
And he pointed out an elegant open carriage which drove slowly along
the broad alley. Countess Frankenstein and her daughter sat facing the
horses, Lieutenant von Stielow in his rich Uhlan uniform opposite to
them. His face beamed with happiness as he talked to the young
countess, and pointed out to her the different encampments in the park.
"A handsome pair," said old Grois benevolently, as he looked at the two
smiling young creatures.
"Oh! that it may remain green for ever! the lovely period of youthful
love!" exclaimed the Gallmeyer. "That is what my friend Wolter would
say," she added laughingly; "but I am very angry with him, for I made
him a declaration of love, and he despised me; but I shall console
myself!"
They passed on.
The countess's carriage, when it had left the thick throng of
pedestrians behind it, drove rapidly towards the town.
At that time long trains, filled with sick and wounded, arrived daily
at the northern station; they were brought from the bandaging sheds and
field hospitals, to Vienna and other places more in the interior, that
they might receive more regular nursing.
The rooms belonging to the station were fitted up for the reception of
the wounded; many arrived in so weak a condition that they could not be
moved immediately, nearly all required to rest for a time, and the
further transport had to be arranged.
It was the regular custom of the ladies of Vienna in every grade, from
the highest aristocracy to the simple shopkeeper's wife, to go to the
railway station when such a train arrived, to refresh the wounded with
cooling drinks and light nourishment, to have linen and lint ready, and
to assist the surgeons as far as they could in any needful operation,
or fresh bandaging. Here was richly shown that beautiful, truly
patriotic spirit of self-denial, so abundant in the Austrian people,
that spirit which the imperial government so frequently misunderstood,
so frequently repressed; but which it scarcely ever directed aright in
its lively desire to benefit the whole nation.
"Some wounded soldiers are coming in," said the young Countess
Frankenstein to her mother, as the carriage arrived at the end of the
Prater, and drew near the northern railway station; "shall we not go? I
have brought some bandages, some raspberry vinegar, and some wine. I
want," she said, turning to her lover with a charming smile, "to help
all the poor wounded soldiers that I can, to show my gratitude to God
for helping me so graciously in my own trouble and sorrow."
Stielow affectionately pressed her hand and looked with admiration at
her lovely, blushing face.
"I thank you for recollecting it," said the countess; "we can never do
enough for those who fight and suffer for their country, and we ought
to set an example to the classes beneath us."
"I must beg you to excuse me," said von Stielow, looking at his watch,
"I must wait on General Gablenz and hear if he has any commands for
me."
Clara looked disappointed.
"But in the evening you will be free?" she asked.
"I certainly hope so," said the young man, "for there is now little for
the aides-de-camp to do."
The carriage had reached the railway station. At a sign from the
lieutenant it drew up at the entrance.
"We shall meet again then," said Countess Frankenstein to Herr von
Stielow, who took leave of the ladies, and Clara's looks said plainer
than words: "We shall soon meet again."
The footman sprang from the box, opened the carriage-door, took a
basket from the boot, and followed the ladies into the interior of the
station.
It presented a touching, grave, and melancholy picture; but at the same
time much that was pleasing and affecting.
Field-beds and litters stood close together in long rows, on which lay
wounded, sick, and dying soldiers belonging to every branch of the
service, Prussian as well as Austrian. Some bore their sufferings in
mute resignation, others sighed and groaned from the horrible tortures
that they endured.
The surgeons walked amongst them, examining into the condition of the
new arrivals, giving orders where they were to be taken, according to
the nature of their wounds, and the hopes they entertained of their
recovery. The bandages were renewed before further transport, medicine
and refreshment were administered, and operations immediately needful
were performed in cabinets erected for the purpose and prepared
beforehand. All this was sad and distressing; those who had seen the
proud regiments set out, the eyes of the soldiers flashing at the blast
of the trumpet, and who now saw the broken suffering forms brought back
from the battle-field, where the sacrifice of their blood had not
obtained victory for the banners of their country, might indeed sigh
sorrowfully, as they thought that the boasted civilization of the human
race, with all its progress, had not as yet banished cruel and
murderous war from the face of the earth; war, that scourge of mankind,
as cruel now as in the grey ages of antiquity, only with this
difference, that the inventive powers of man have discovered more
certain and annihilating weapons.
Beside the surgeons who examined the wounds with the cold looks of
science, were seen the sisters of mercy, those unwearied priestesses of
Christian love: calmly and without a sound they glided between the
beds, sometimes with gentle hand assisting in the placing of a bandage,
sometimes with a kind consoling word putting to the pale dry lips some
cooling drink, or strengthening medicine.
And everywhere amongst the busy groups were seen the beautiful and
graceful ladies of Vienna, especially the ladies of the higher
aristocracy, offering the sick refreshments, handing the surgeons linen
bandages, and calling up a smile upon some sad suffering face.
They did not assist much, it is true, these self-constituted
Samaritans, whom the love of their country moved to aid in the care of
her wounded soldiers, but the sight of them did endless good to the
sick and suffering; they felt that in their tenderness there was an
acknowledgment of their pain and sacrifices; many of the eyes, misled
by fever, believed they saw in the forms around them a sister or a
sweetheart, and the vacant weary looks lighted up, the pale quivering
lip gently smiled at the kind hands which thus performed the noblest
work of woman--alleviating pain and soothing suffering.
So they brought pleasure and consolation to the poor wounded men, these
willing nurses; though the surgeons sometimes said they were in the
way; but surgeons reckon without that muscle of the heart which drives
the blood streaming through the veins, not to be found by the scalpel
in an anatomical examination of the human heart, with all its abysses
of grief, and its tender fragrant flowers of joy; they know not its
power and yet it often puts their art to shame.
The Countess Frankenstein and her daughter were soon surrounded by
several ladies of the first society, and with them they began their
round amongst the wounded.
Amongst the numerous women who were assembled here, and who it might
almost be said followed the fashion of nursing the sick, if indeed such
a word ought to be applied to so good and blessed an employment, which
was generally engaged in from the noblest motives, was the beautiful
Madame Balzer.
Dressed in the plainest dark grey toilette, a small basket containing
bandages and nourishment upon her arm, she had followed one of the
surgeons and assisted him with such skill that he had thanked her,
surprised that it was apparently a lady of distinction and not a sister
of mercy who had aided him so efficiently. She looked wonderfully
beautiful in her simple dress, with her pale perfect features; from the
unusual gracefulness of her movements, and the gentle self-possession
with which she approached the beds of the sufferers, a stranger would
have thought that amongst all these distinguished ladies of Vienna she
was the most distinguished. These ladies, however, did not know her;
several of them enquired who that lovely graceful person was, but no
one could reply, for in Vienna there is not that public life which in
Paris gives to the ladies of the great world the opportunity of knowing
perfectly well by sight, their imitators or their models in doubtful
society. The name of Madame Balzer was known to many of these ladies,
she was frequently the subject of conversation in the _salons_ of
Vienna; but only a few of them had seen her, for she went out of doors
but little and always rigorously observed _les convenances_.
She passed along by the beds of the wounded soldiers administering
comfort and refreshment; at last she reached the end of a long row, and
saw a litter standing at some little distance, on which a soldier lay
stretched.
She went up to him and bent slowly over him, his expressionless eyes
startled her, the blue corpse-like colour was spread over his pale thin
face, a large gaping wound was seen on his bare breast. The wounded man
had died during the journey, he must have expired quite an hour before.
Involuntarily she laid her hand upon his brow, it was cold as ice.
She was gazing horrified upon this dreadful sight, when animated voices
met her ear.
She looked up, and saw at a little distance a group of several ladies
standing near the litter of a soldier in the Uhlan uniform; the bandage
round his head had slipped and with a feeble hand he was endeavouring
to replace it.
Amongst these ladies stood the lovely and graceful young countess
Frankenstein. The deepest compassion shone in her eyes, but it did not
banish the brilliant happiness that she felt. With a smile she said:
"This uniform must always be first with me, I almost belong to it
myself!" and with a light elastic step she went up to the litter, and
drawing off her gloves, and throwing back her lace sleeves, she began
with her beautiful white hands to arrange the bandage for the wounded
man. Over her arms hung a long strip of fine white linen, which she
used to retain the bandage in its place until the surgeon should
arrive.
Antonia Balzer started when she heard this voice; from her dark corner
she watched the charming and beautiful young girl as she stood in the
strong light with her smiling lips and brilliant eyes.
A deadly paleness spread over her face, her complexion grew as ghastly
as that of the poor man who lay before her; a burning flash of which no
human eyes seemed capable darted from her, wild hatred distorted her
lovely features.
She gazed for one moment on the charming figure near her, then her face
assumed a gloomy, dreadful expression; an indescribable smile appeared
on her lips.
"Here is death, there is life!" she whispered hoarsely, and bent down
over the corpse until her face was hidden, and could be recognized by
no one.
She took a small pair of scissors with golden handles from her basket,
and stooping over the dead man she plunged the points of the scissors
deep into the wound upon his breast, then she pressed her fine cambric
handkerchief upon it, and saturated it with the bloody fluid that
exuded.
She sprang up hastily; her face expressed anxious excitement.
She hastened to the knot of ladies surrounding Clara Frankenstein, who
was still occupied in holding the strip of linen which she had placed
around the forehead of the wounded man.
"For heaven's sake!" cried Madame Balzer, "give me a strip of linen, a
drop of eau de cologne! I have exhausted everything; a poor wounded man
is dying!"
And hastily approaching Clara she seized her outstretched arm with both
hands, as if imploring her for a piece of the linen which hung over it.
Clara uttered a cry and hastily drew back her hand. A drop of blood
appeared just above her wrist and trickled slowly down her white arm.
"Oh, how clumsy of me!" cried Madame Balzer. "I have hurt you with my
scissors; I beg a thousand pardons!"
And she quickly pressed the handkerchief she had applied to the wound
upon the wrist of the young countess.
"Pray do not mind about it," said Clara kindly; "do not let us lose our
time over this little scratch when there are so many serious wounds to
think of."
And she slowly withdrew her arm, which Madame Balzer was still rubbing
with her handkerchief as if to remove the blood.
Clara held out the strip of linen which she had in her hand and said:
"Pray take some."
Madame Balzer quickly cut a piece off with her scissors, returned
graceful thanks, and after again apologizing for her awkwardness,
returned to the corpse.
Several ladies who had witnessed the little scene hastened to the
litter.
"The man is dead!" they cried, "nothing can be done here!"
Madame Balzer gazed sorrowfully on the corpse.
"Yes, he is dead!" she said, "we were too late!"
And folding her hands she bowed her head and moved her lips in
whispered prayer. Deep devotion appeared on her features. The ladies
around followed her example, and uttered a short prayer for the soul of
the deceased, whose return was perhaps ardently desired in some distant
home.
Then they all went on to other beds.
One of the few gentlemen dispersed amongst the numerous and
compassionate nurses, assisting and advising, was Count Rivero.
He was not far off when Madame Balzer hurried to Clara to beg for some
linen.
His large dark eyes rested thoughtfully on the two beautiful women
during their short conversation; then he turned slowly away and walked
in a contrary direction.
A few hours later the station was empty; the ladies had all returned
either to their luxurious palaces or quiet family circles; the poor
wounded soldiers had been conveyed to hospitals, to struggle to
convalescence, after long days of suffering, or to die.