THE LAST SUPPORT.
There was alarm in the Wildenau Palace. The countess had suddenly
returned, without notifying the servants--in plain words, without
asking the servants' permission. She had intended to remain absent
several months--they were not prepared, had nothing ready, nothing
cleaned, not even a single room in her suite of apartments heated.
She seemed absent-minded, went to her rooms at once, and locked herself
in. Then her bell rang violently--the servants who were consulting
together below scattered, the maids darted up the main staircase, the
men up a side flight.
"I want the coachman, Martin!" was the unexpected order.
"Martin isn't here," the footman ventured to answer--"as we did not
know ..."
"Then send for him!" replied the countess imperiously. She did not
appear even to notice the implied reproof. Then she permitted the
attendant to make a fire on the hearth, for it was a raw, damp day in
early spring, and after her stay in Cannes, the weather seemed like
Siberia.
Half an hour elapsed. Meanwhile the maids were unpacking, and the
countess was arranging a quantity of letters she had brought with her.
They were all numbered, and of ancient date. Among them was one from
Freyer, written four weeks previously, containing only the words:
"Even in death, Josepha has filled a mother's place to our child--she
has rested in the chapel with him since this morning. I think you will
not object to her being buried there.
"Joseph."
The countess again glanced at the letter, her eyes rested on the errors
in orthography. Such tragical information, with so terrible a reproach
between the lines--and the effect--a ludicrous one! She would gladly
have effaced the mistakes in order not to be ashamed of having given
this man so important a part in the drama of her life--but they stood
there with the distinctness of a boy's unpractised hand. A man who
could not even write correctly! She had not noticed it before, he wrote
rarely and always very briefly--or had she possessed no eyes for his
faults at that time? Yes, she must have been blind, utterly blind. She
had not answered the letter. Now she tore it up and threw it into the
fire. Josepha's death would have been a deliverance to her, had she not
a few weeks later received another letter which she now read once more,
panting for breath. But, however frequently she perused its contents,
she found only that old Martin entreated her to return--Josepha had
"blabbed."
That one word in the stiff hand of the faithful old servant, which
looked as if it might have been scrawled with a match upon paper
redolent of the odors of the stable, had so startled the countess that
she left Cannes by the first train, and traveled day and night to reach
home. A nervous restlessness made the sheet tremble in her hand as she
thrust it into the flames. Then she paced restlessly to and fro. Martin
was keeping her waiting so long.
A little supper had been hurriedly prepared and was now served. But
the countess scarcely touched the food and, complaining that the
dining-room was cold, crept back to her boudoir. At last, about half
past nine, Martin was announced. He had gone to bed and they had been
obliged to rouse him.
"Is Your Highness going out?" asked the footman, who could not
understand the summons to Martin.
"If I am, you will receive orders for the carriage," replied his
mistress, and a flash from her eyes silenced the servant. "Let Martin
come in!" she added in a harsh, imperious tone.
The man opened the door.
"You are dismissed for to-night. The lights can be put out," she added.
Martin stood, hat in hand, awaiting his mistress' commands. A few
minutes passed, then the countess noiselessly went to the door to see
that the adjoining rooms were empty and that no one was listening. When
she returned she drew the heavy curtains over the door to deaden every
sound. Then her self-control gave way and rushing to the old coachman
she grasped his hand. "Martin, for Heaven's sake, what has happened?"
Tears glittered in Martin's eyes, as he saw his mistress' alarm, and he
took her trembling hands as gently as if they were the reins of a fiery
blooded horse, on which a curb has been placed for the first time.
"Ho--ho--dear Countess, only keep quiet, quiet," he said in the
soothing tones used to his frightened steeds: "All is not lost! I
didn't let myself be caught, and there's no proof of what Josepha
blabbed."
"So they tried to catch you? Tell me"--she was trembling--"how did they
come to you?"
"Well," said Martin clumsily, "this is how it was. They seem to have
driven Josepha into a corner. At her funeral the cook told me that just
before she died, two strangers came to the house and had a long
conversation with the sick woman. When the hare she was ordered to cook
was done, she carried it up. But the people in the room were talking so
loud that she didn't dare go in and stood at the door listening.
Something was said about the countess' favor and a crime, and Josepha
was terribly excited. Suddenly she heard nothing more, Josepha
stammered a few unintelligible words, and the gentlemen came out with
faces as red as fire. They left the hare in the lurch--and off they
went. Josepha died the same night. Then I thought they might be the
Barons von Wildenau, because their coachman had often tried to pump me
about our countess, and I said to myself, 'now I'll do the same to
him.' And sure enough I found out that the gentlemen had gone away, and
where? To Prankenberg!"
The countess turned pale and sank into an arm-chair. "There,
there--Your Highness, don't be troubled," Martin went on calmly--"that
will do them no good, the church books don't lie open on the tavern
tables like bills of fare, and the old pastor will not let everybody
meddle with them."
"The old pastor?" cried the countess despairingly--"he is dead, and
since my father, the prince, has grown weak-minded, the patronage has
lapsed to the government. The new pastor has no motive for showing us
any consideration."
"So the old pastor is dead? H'm, H'm!" Martin for the first time shook
his head anxiously. "If one could only get a word from His Highness the
Prince--just to find out whether the marriage was really entered in the
record."
"Yes, if we knew that!"
Martin smiled with a somewhat embarrassed look. "I ventured to take a
little liberty--and went--I thought I would try whether I could find
out anything from him? Because His Highness--you remember--followed us
to Prankenberg."
"Very true!" The countess nodded in the utmost excitement. "Well?"
"Alas!--it was useless! His Highness doesn't know anybody, can remember
nothing. When you go over to-morrow, you will see that he can't live
long. His Highness is perfectly childish. Then he got so excited that
we thought he would lose his breath, and at last had to be put to bed.
I could not help weeping when I saw it--such a stately gentleman--and
now so helpless!"
The countess listened to this report with little interest. Her father
had been nothing to her while he retained his mental faculties--now, in
a condition of slow decay, he was merely a poor invalid, to whom she
performed the usual filial duties.
"Go on, go on," she cried impatiently, "you are not telling the story
in regular order. When did you see my father?"
"A week ago, after my talk with the gentlemen."
"That is the main thing--tell me about that."
"Why, it was this way: I was sitting quietly at the tavern one night,
when Herr von Wildenau's coachman came to me again and said that his
master wanted to talk with me about our bay mare with the staggers
which he would like to harness with his bay. I was glad that we could
get the mare off on him."
"Fie, Martin!"
"Why--if nobody tried to cheat, there wouldn't be any more
horse-trading! So I told him I thought the countess would sell the
mare--we had no mate for her and I would inform Your Highness. No, the
gentleman would write directly to Her Highness--only I must go to them,
they wanted to talk with me. Well--I went, and they shut all the doors
and pulled the curtains over them, just as your Highness did, and then
they began on the bay and promised me a big fee, if I would get her
cheap for them. Every coachman takes a fee," the old man added in an
embarrassed tone, "it's the custom--you won't be vexed, Countess--so I
made myself a bit important and pretended that it depended entirely on
me, and I would make Her Highness so dissatisfied with the mare that
she would be glad to get rid of her cheap, and--all the rest of the
things we coachmen say! So the gentlemen thought because I bargained
with them about one thing, I would about another. But that was quite
different from a horse-trade, and my employers are no animals to be
sold, so they found that they had come to the wrong person. If I would
make a little extra money by getting rid of a poor animal, which we had
long wanted to sell, I'm not the rascal to take thousands from anybody
to deprive my employers of house and home. And the poor old Prince,
who can no longer help himself, would perhaps be left to starve in his
old age. No, the gentlemen were mistaken in old Martin, they don't
know what it is"--tears were streaming down the old man's wrinkled
cheeks--"to put such a little princess on a horse for the first time
and place the reins in her tiny hands."
"Please go on Martin," said the countess gently, scarcely able to exert
any better control over herself. "What did they offer you?"
"A great deal of money, if I would bear witness in court that you were
married."
"Ah!"--the terrified woman covered her face with her hands.
"There--there, Countess," said Martin, soothingly. "I haven't finished!
Hold your head up. Your Highness, I beg you, this is no time to be
faint-hearted, we must be on the watch and keep the reins well in hand,
that they may not get the start of us."
"Yes, yes! Go on!"
"Well, they tried to catch me napping. They knew everything, and I had
been a witness of the wedding at Prankenberg!"
"Good Heavens!" The countess seemed paralyzed.
Martin laughed. "But I didn't let myself be caught--I looked as stupid
as if I couldn't bridle a horse, and had never heard of any wedding in
all my days except our Princess' marriage to the late Count. Of course
I was at the church then, with all the other servants. Then the
gentlemen muttered something in French--and asked what wages I had, and
when I told them, they said they were too low for such rich employers,
and began to make me offers till they reached fifty thousand marks, if
I would state what they wanted. Yes, and then they told me you were
capable of marrying two men and meant to take the duke as well as the
steward, and they didn't want to have such a crime in the family--so I
must help them prevent it. But this didn't move me at all, and I said:
'That's no concern of mine; my mistress knows what to do!' So off I
went, and left the gentlemen staring like balky horses when they don't
want to pass anything. Then I went to the Prince, and as I could learn
nothing there, I knew of no other way than to write to Your Highness. I
hope you'll pardon the liberty."
"Oh, Martin, you trusty old servant! Your simple loyalty shames me; but
I fear that your sacrifice is useless--they know all, Martin, nothing
can save me."
Martin smiled craftily into the bottom of his hat, as if it was the
source of his wisdom, "I think just this: If the gentlemen _do_ know
everything, they have got to _prove_ it, for Josepha is dead, and if
they had found the information they wanted at Prankenberg, they needn't
offer so much money for my testimony!"
The countess pressed her hand upon her head: "I don't know, I can't
think any more. Oh, Martin, how shall I thank you? If the stroke of the
pen which will give you the fifty thousand marks you scorned to receive
from the Wildenaus can repay you--take it, but I shall still be your
debtor." She hurriedly wrote a few words. "There is a check for fifty
thousand marks, cash it early to-morrow morning. Don't delay an hour,
any day may be the last that I shall have anything to give. Take it
quickly."
But Martin shook his head. "Why, what is Your Highness thinking of? I
don't want to be paid, like a bribed witness, for doing only my duty.
There would have been no credit in refusing the money, if I took it
afterward from Your Highness. No, I thank you most humbly--but I can't
do it."
The countess was deeply ashamed. "But if I lose my property, Martin, if
they begin a law-suit--I can no longer reward your fidelity. Have you
considered that everything can be taken from me if they succeed in
proving that I am married?"
Martin nodded: "Yes, yes, I know our late master's will. I believe he
was jealous and wanted to prevent the countess from marrying again. But
you needn't be troubled about me, I've saved enough to buy a little
home which, in case of need, might shelter the countess and Herr
Freyer, too. I have had it all from you!" Martin's broad face beamed
with joy at the thought.
"Martin!"--she could say no more. Martin did not know what had
happened--surely the skies would fall--the countess had sunk upon his
breast, the broad old breast in which throbbed such a stupid, honest
heart! He stood as motionless as a post or the pile of a bridge, to
which a drowning person clings. But, during all the sixty-five years
his honest heart had beat under the Prankenberg livery, it had never
throbbed so violently as at this moment. His little princess! She was
in his arms again as in the days when he placed her in the saddle for
the first time. Then she wept and clung to him whenever the horse made
a spring, but he held her firmly and she felt safe in his care--now she
again wept and clung to him in helpless terror--but now she was a
stately woman who had outgrown his protection!
"There--there, Countess," he said, soothingly. "God will help you. Go
to rest. You are wearied by the long journey. To-morrow you will see
everything with very different eyes. And, as I said before, if all the
ropes break--then you will find lodging with old Martin. You always
liked peasants' fare. Don't you remember how you used to slip in to the
coachman's little room and shared my bread and cheese till the
governess found it out and spoiled our fun? Yes, yes, bread and cheese
were forbidden dainties, and yet they were God's gift which even the
poorest might enjoy. You must remember the coachman's little room and
how they tasted! Well, we haven't gone so far yet, and Your Highness'
friends will not suffer it. Yet, if matters ever _did_ come to that, I
believe Your Highness would rather accept a home from me than from any
of these noblemen."
"You may be right there!" said the countess, with a thoughtful nod.
"May God guard Your Highness from either.--Has Your Highness any
farther orders?"
"Yes, my good Martin. Go early to-morrow morning to the Prince--or
rather the Duke of Metten-Barnheim--and ask him to call on me at ten
o'clock."
"Alas--the duke went to shoot black cock this morning--I suppose he
didn't know that Your Highness was coming?"
"Certainly not How long will he be away?"
"Till the end of the week, his coachman told me."
"This too!" She stood in helpless despair.
"The coachman said that His Highness was going to Castle
Sternbach--perhaps Your Highness might telegraph there!"
"Yes, my good old friend--you are right!" And with eager haste she
wrote a telegram. "There it is, Martin, it will reach him somewhere!"
And she remembered the message despatched nine years before, after the
Passion Play, to the man whom she was now recalling as her last
support. At that time she informed him that she should stay in Ammergau
and let the roses awaiting her at home wither--now she remained at home
and let the roses that bloomed for her in Ammergau languish.
The coachman, as if reading the mute language of her features and the
bitter expression of her compressed lips, asked timidly: "I suppose
Your Highness will not drive to the Griess."
"No!" she said, so curtly and hastily that it cut short any farther
words.
For the first time a shadow flitted over honest Martin's face. Sadly,
almost reproachfully, he wished his beloved mistress "a good night's
rest," and stumbled wearily out. It had hurt him,--but "the last thing
he had discovered," he did not venture, out of respect to his employer,
to express even to himself.