IN BERLIN.
The chorus was intoning a grand polonaise, to the strains of which a
glittering train of splendidly-attired couples was marching around the
magnificent ball-room of the Berlin Opera-House. The Emperor's tall,
venerable figure was followed by the various royal pairs, at whose
approach the guests of the opera-ball stood in line and bowed
respectfully while the court passed by. Twice the royal party made the
circuit of the room, and then for the most part retired to their
private boxes. Meanwhile the glittering crowd of the public--the truly
mixed metropolitan society--thronged the foyers and public boxes.
Magnificent toilettes surged up and down the broad flight of steps that
to-night replaced the box usually appropriated to the court, and that
led down to the parquette, now floored over for the dancers, the number
of whom was still on the increase. At the head of these steps stood a
couple who had already been the subject of frequent remark. The
cavalier was a distinguished, aristocratic figure; the lady, unique in
air, with bright sparkling eyes and a bewitching smile upon her
delicately curved lips, wore a robe of sea-green satin, that suited
well the red gold of her abundant hair.
"Count Bernhard Eichhof, the youngest member of the Reichstag, and Frau
von Wronsky," whispered one of the initiated to a guest from the
provinces.
Count Bernhard Eichhof and Fran von Wronksy! How came it to pass that
her hand rested on his arm? How came it to pass that she was clever,
witty, amusing for all the rest of the world, and gentle, often humble,
always femininely delicate and reserved towards him alone? The one
manner perhaps explained the other.
Certainly since the election it was Bernhard's duty to be civil to
Marzell Wronsky, and just as certainly it was the fact that Marzell's
wife attracted a throng of ardent admirers around her in the
metropolis, although she passed for a very cold beauty. None of the men
who worshipped at her shrine could boast of the least distinction
accorded them by her. It was said of her that she had witty, clever
words for all, but a heart for none, unless, indeed, her husband was
its fortunate possessor, as to which there was a great diversity of
opinion. This cold, haughty woman was meekness itself towards Bernhard.
He could not himself tell why it was, but he was never with her without
a conviction that she hid a warm, nay, a glowing heart beneath a coldly
composed exterior.
Bernhard had believed himself justified in despising her. She had
endured his scorn without remonstrance, only showing him that she
suffered fearfully beneath it. He began to pity her, and the thought
that he had perhaps been too harsh towards her gradually gave way to
the conviction that there might be many reasons for a milder judgment
of her. He saw all the homage that was paid her here, and often heard
women in whose opinion he placed great confidence declare that her
conduct was always exemplary. At last he came to regard himself as an
insufferable prig, and decided that his manner towards the lady must
undergo a change. She was so grateful for every little attention from
him, while any such from others was received so coldly, that Bernhard
felt himself exalted to the position of her magnanimous protector. He
really desired to hear from herself the explanation of a dark point in
her past, about which, as he knew, all the world was in error. And thus
it came to pass that Count Bernhard Eichhof offered his arm to Frau von
Wronsky to conduct her about the opera-house, and to be conscious that
she was admired by everybody, and that he was envied of many. The
couple paused for a few minutes at the head of the steps, observing
those going and coming.
"What exquisite toilettes!" said Julutta Wronsky, indicating with a
scarcely perceptible motion of her fan two ladies who were passing.
"This is an excellent post of observation."
"Unfortunately, you cannot see the most exquisite toilette here,
madame," said a young officer who stood on the other side of her.
She looked at him inquiringly.
"You could only see that by standing opposite a mirror," the officer
said, with a meaning smile, stroking his moustache and scanning her
figure with a bold glance of admiration.
Bernhard felt her hand rest somewhat more heavily on his arm, as she
replied, with a certain far-away look in her eyes which did not seem
even to see the young fellow, "It is a pity you cannot exercise your
talents in a milliner's shop, Herr von Dollen; that is the place for
mirrors and a certain kind of complimentary speeches."
Herr von Dollen laughed rather constrainedly, and soon took his
departure, while Bernhard and Julutta descended the steps.
"Dollen has had a lesson," said Bernhard, smiling.
"I cannot endure that sort of compliment," Julutta replied,
impatiently,--instantly, however, bending her head slightly, while a
faint flush rose to her cheeks.
"Forgive me," she whispered; "I forgot that you, very naturally, cannot
believe this of _me_." The words were uttered with no appearance either
of offence or of irony; there was only a slight vibration, as from
suppressed, painful emotion, audible in her voice.
Bernhard looked at her. Her face wore the sweet, timid expression that
it was wont to assume for him alone.
"Nay, madame," he said; "I can easily believe that the expression of
such coarse and impertinent admiration may well wound your pride."
"I thank you," she rejoined, with a glance of fervid gratitude raised
for an instant to his face; "it would, however, have been but natural
for you to disbelieve in any genuine pride on my part."
"If I had done so before, this winter would have convinced me of my
error," he replied, in a low voice, bending towards her.
He saw her sudden blush; her breath came quicker and her lips quivered.
She said nothing, but she looked at him again, and in her eyes there
was so much gratitude and happiness that Bernhard was involuntarily
touched. Suddenly her hand trembled, and the blush on her cheek faded,
to be succeeded by a mortal pallor.
"Let us go," she murmured, pausing abruptly and turning from the
direction in which they were walking; "for God's sake take me away from
here!"
"What is the matter?"
"Good heavens, do you not see?" She took her hand from his arm and
tried to penetrate alone the crowd which had gathered closely about the
dancers. Bernhard looked around him,--a few steps off stood a tall,
rather good-looking man, in the dress of a civilian, watching the
dancers. Bernhard recognized the dark, sharply-defined features, the
lofty brow, and the thin hair brushed away from the temples. He knew
now why Julutta Wronsky had turned and fled. For an instant he
hesitated; then he followed her. Just as he reached her she covered her
eyes with her hand. "I am so dizzy," she moaned; "the whole room is
turning round. Oh, my God!"
She tottered and seemed about to fall. Bernhard supported her to the
foyer, where he found an armchair for her. Her hand trembled
perceptibly upon his arm; she shivered. He addressed no word to her;
she sank into the chair without speaking again, and, leaning back, half
closed her eyes. "Find my husband for me; we must go," she said, at
last.
"You are ill. Let me bring you a glass of wine," he said, looking at
her marble-white face. She shook her head.
"I cannot breathe here, now that I know----" Her lips quivered, and she
did not finish her sentence. Bernhard stood hesitating for a moment
beside her.
"Go!" she entreated again.
And he went to let Wronsky know that his wife had suddenly been taken
ill and wished to leave the hall.
A quarter of an hour afterwards Bernhard was standing alone at the head
of the broad steps, looking listlessly down upon the surging crowd. The
stranger whom he had observed was no longer there; the Wronskys had
gone home. Bernhard thought the opera-ball rather stupid.
"Aha! where is your beautiful companion?" asked Herr von Dollen,
suddenly appearing.
"Gone home," Bernhard answered, rather brusquely.
"Remarkable woman; cold and hard as an icicle, but piquante. You are
very intimate there, eh?"
"Scarcely that. But the Wronskys are neighbours of ours."
"Ah! then you really know something of them, and can tell me about the
lady's former marriage. They say it was short and unhappy, but no one
seems to know whether she is a widow or a _divorcee_. She never alludes
to her past----"
"I do not know why you should suppose her to have made an exception in
my case, Herr von Dollen," Bernhard interrupted him, with some
irritation.
"Ah! _pardon_, I only thought that perhaps you knew----"
"I know nothing," Bernhard briefly rejoined. He was not in a pleasant
mood, and soon after left the ball.
As he was passing through the gateway, he suddenly heard himself called
by name.
"_Vraiment, c'est Monsieur de Eikhoff_," said a harsh, grating voice
that Bernhard seemed to have heard before. He turned and confronted the
stranger.
"Ah, _enchante_, charmed to see you, _mon cher ami_; an unexpected
meeting."
"Most unexpected, Herr von Moehazy," Bernhard said, coldly, touching his
hat, and apparently overlooking the stranger's outstretched hand. The
latter took no notice of this oversight, however, but continued, in his
grating voice and in German, spoken with a strong foreign accent,--
"Are you, too, tired of the ball? They say we are going too soon, the
height of gayety has not yet been reached. _A propos_, do you make a
long stay in Berlin?"
"So long as the Reichstag is in session. And you?" Bernhard asked, with
sudden interest. "Shall you stay for the Carnival?"
"Heaven, or whatever other powers there be, forbid! Berlin is too
provincial, although it has made some progress of late years. I come
from Paris, and am on my way to St. Petersburg."
An expression of relief passed across Bernhardt face: "Ah? Allow me to
wish you a pleasant winter." And he turned to go.
"_O ca, Herr von Eikhoff!_" Herr von Moehazy called after him; "I will
not detain you if you are expected at a rendezvous!" He laughed, and
Bernhard made a gesture of impatience. "Pardon, but I should like to
learn something of a lady whom perhaps you know."
"I can hardly have anything to tell of a lady whom _you_ inquire for,"
Bernhard said, sharply, while a flush rose to his forehead.
But Herr von Moehazy was not easily disconcerted. "Ah! pardon, I know
you are _un jeune homme vertueux_; but my question refers to a lady of
position, a Frau von---- Ah, what is her name at present?" He took out
a note-book and turned over the leaves, while Bernhard, agitated by
conflicting emotions, stood rooted as by a spell to the spot, instead
of turning his back upon the man at once.
"Ah, here it is," said Herr von Moehazy,--"Frau Julutta Wronsky." And he
looked at Bernhard again. "Do you know her? and could you tell me where
to find her? It is merely for _un petit amusement sans consequence_."
"You can look for the name in the directory," replied Bernhard, well
knowing that 'Wronsky' could not be found in it.
"You do not know her, then? But, _parbleu_! you did know her,
_surement_. Ah, I must take you into confidence; the story is very
piquant."
"I regret, Herr Moehazy, that I have not a moment to spare at present.
Let me advise you to search the directory, and if you do not find the
name there you may conclude that the lady is not in Berlin."
He jumped into his carriage and drove to his hotel.
"What will he do?" was the question that filled his mind, "and what
_can_ he do? He can certainly destroy the social position, and perhaps
the very existence, of this woman, wretch that he is! But he must be
prevented; he must!" He suddenly bethought himself and took himself to
task.
"What business is it all of mine? I am very sorry for the woman, but it
is none the less true that she went wrong, and must now bear the
consequences, which may perhaps ruin her, who knows? I cannot prevent
it; and, indeed, when I remember everything, I cannot even excuse her.
And yet----"
The carriage stopped at his hotel.
In his room he found a letter from Thea, describing the dance at
Eichhof. He read it with thoughts elsewhere. It all seemed like child's
play, whilst here in Berlin there might shortly be enacted one of those
tragedies which now and then disturb the smooth surface of society. He
saw before him the unsuspicious husband, from whose eyes the veil was
suddenly torn; the guilty woman, who had vainly tried to atone for the
sin of her youth; the vile betrayer--oh, here were the same parts
played in so many dramas, but each of these performers wore a face
familiar to Bernhard. This husband, the happiness of whose life was
perhaps to be annihilated at a blow, had been his schoolmate; he had
exchanged friendly words with this woman--no, he would not think of the
wife, but of the deceived husband,--only of him; and for the sake of
this companion of his boyhood--for the husband's sake--the thought of
this drama filled him with horror. Must he not try to avert its
fulfilment? He believed that he must do so, and for the husband's
sake alone; and whenever through the night the image of the pale,
golden-haired woman intruded upon his thoughts, he thrust it from him.
She must be sacrificed to his sense of justice in his thoughts, if
not in reality. "Not for her,--she does not deserve it,--but for her
husband, I must try to see this Moehazy once more, and in some way render
him harmless. First, however, I must speak with her; I must clearly
understand the matter, and consult with her as to the best measures for
her protection."
With her! Yes; the indirect ways of the heart and of the devil are
marvellous indeed. They led Count Bernhard Eichhof the next morning to
Frau von Wronsky's boudoir!