After all, what had induced Conte Capriani to spend his summer in Austria? His wife and his children were unutterably bored in their exile, and he--he was consumed with secret chagrin. He had intended to astound the earth whereon he had once run barefoot, but nothing had fulfilled his expectations, absolutely nothing. The Austrian climate did not agree with him, decidedly not. Instead of the intoxicating consciousness of triumph wherein he had hoped to revel, he was tormented, from morning until night, by a sensation of rasping humiliation. His arrogance sickened, shrivelled up; even his possessions suddenly seemed to him insignificant. His wealth was, to be sure, more easily convertible into cash, more available than that of the Austrian aristocrats. But what availed his airy, fleeting millions compared with these well-nigh indestructible possessions, rooted for centuries in native soil?
Many, many years before, on a muddy road the sides of which were spotted with patches of dirty snow fast melting in the early spring, little Alfred Stein had run behind a high old-fashioned green coach hung on spiral springs, and had tried to steal a ride on the hind axle. The bearded coachman--a stout, patriarchal coachman with a broad fur collar--looked back, saw him, and snapped his whip at him, so sharply that the boy, frightened, let go the axle, and fell off into a puddle. A chubby child, at the carriage window, leaned far out to see him, and laughed, without any malice, loud and heartily, as all healthy children laugh at anything comical. But rage seized young Alfred, and when he could do it unobserved, he clenched his fist, and shook it at the carriage.
At that time his envy did not reach higher than to a green coach, with a stately fur-clad coachman who could cut at all barefoot boys who were clinging on behind. How many miles his envy had travelled since then, how many ragamuffins his coachman had since then whipped off from his carriages, and yet at times it seemed to him that in reality he had not gained a step since that warm damp day in spring, when he had fallen into the puddle, and had been laughed at by the saucy little boy.
The child of poor parents, his extraordinary beauty had attracted the notice of a Bohemian Countess, who oddly enough was the owner of that same green coach. He was the best scholar in the village school, and the Countess befriended him. He became the playmate of her proud, good-natured, indolent children. By-and-by he shared their lessons, and his progress was remarkable. He was patted on the shoulder, his diligence was commended, and at last, by dint of flattery and servility, he obtained the means to study in Vienna. The years of his student life were most wretched. He possessed neither the dullness nor the imagination that can make poverty tolerable, but his were the endurance and the cunning that overcome poverty. Averse to no secret infamy, he, nevertheless made a parade of morality, and was an adept in what a witty Frenchman callsle charlatanisme du désintéressement. Although a Sybarite by nature, and susceptible to all physical enjoyment, the instant that the attainment of his aims was at stake, he became a pattern of abstinence. He knew how to allow himself to be heaped with benefits, without acquiring the reputation of a parasite on the one hand or of a man who used his friends without any show of gratitude on the other.
From the outset of his career he owed his success, not alone to his personal beauty, but to his faculty for intuitively detecting the evil propensities of others, and for privately pandering to them, yet always preserving a show of indulgent charity withal. His medical practise opened to him the doors of certain social circles which would else probably have been forever closed to him. He practised medicine for a while at fashionable watering places, and he had many distinguished patients among the fair sex; at last, however, his marriage to a rich Russian girl relieved him from the necessity of pursuing his profession, and led his speculative mind into other paths.
His wife's fortune, however, was soon but a small part of that which he accumulated and added to it. Always restless, often unprincipled, he heaped up his millions, seeming fairly to conjure money out of other men's pockets. His greed of gain was no petty passion, there was in it something of the heroic. Wealth was not his end, but a means to his end, a weapon,--power.
In Paris this power had not failed him, but in Austria no one was dazzled by it except those towards whom he felt utterly indifferent. Day by day he grew more irritable, more bitter; what did his millions avail with these Austrian aristocrats who, had, with indolent elegance dragged after them for centuries, in spite of all levelling tendencies of any age, the burden of their ancient traditions--called by the Liberals prejudices--and who had grown weary at last of justifiable carping at their official and unofficial prerogatives, and had taken refuge upon an island as it were of determined exclusiveness, where, entrenched as behind the wall of China, they loftily ignored all the revolutionary hubbub around them.
He had succeeded in much, why should he not succeed in making a breach in this wall of China? This was the aim of all his efforts. He was one of those who would fain destroy what they cannot attain. By a thousand enticing temptations he had striven to arouse the avarice of theRight Honourables, as he called them, that the base, degrading greed of gain might bruise the strict sense of honour that was like a 'hoop of gold to bind in' Austrian exclusiveness. To brand an aristocrat as a swindler would be a keener joy than to make him a beggar.
He had hitherto had only a few petty triumphs in this direction, but he was too ambitious, too clear-sighted to be contented in the long run with these trifling victories.
One consciousness of terrible import to others had at times afforded Capriani some consolation, but of late even this consciousness had lost somewhat of its soothing charm.
When, after his return from Prague, Kilary had asked him, with a sneer, if he had really succeeded in twisting Oswald Lodrin around his finger the Conte had replied with some embarrassment, "We have not done with each other yet, but I rather think that what I said to him will have an effect."
And while he was making private marks with coloured pencils upon his business letters, or telegraphic despatches which arrived in large numbers for him every day, he repeated to himself, again and again: "It will have an effect!"
It is evening in the drawing-room at Tornow, and the air breathes soft and fragrance-laden through the open window; the monotonous chirp of the crickets sounds loud and shrill as if to drown the sweet plaint of the nightingale. Beyond the circle of light cast by the lamps more than half of the spacious room is quite dark.
The Countess Lodrin is bending over an embroidery frame, busied in working the Zinsenburg crest upon a hassock; Oswald, Georges, and Pistasch, who, when the races were over had accepted an invitation to come to Tornow with Georges, are eagerly discussing a false start. Oswald, the quietest of the three, glances from time to time at his mother.
He has, to be sure, succeeded in shaking off his uglyidée fixe, and in regaining his former cheerfulness; but yet, by fits and starts, he is assailed by a paralysing sensation of dread. Then he takes refuge with his mother; by her side the odious fancies have no power. There are times when he is possessed by a wild impulse to deliver Capriani's message, to ask his mother whether she ever really knew Doctor Stein and to watch the effect; but at the critical moment his heart has always failed him, and he has been ashamed of yielding even thus much to his disgraceful weakness.
When they have exhausted the false start, Georges and Pistasch enter upon a discussion of the best method of shoeing horses. This interesting topic absorbs them so entirely that neither perceives that for several minutes the Countess has been searching for something which she has mislaid,--finally even stooping to look for it on the floor. It is Oswald who rises and asks, "What are you looking for, mamma?"
"A strand of scarlet silk."
The two gentlemen of course feel it their duty to offer their services, but too late; Oswald has already picked up the silk. This trifling diversion, however, puts a stop to the sporting talk.
"Mimi Dey came to see me this morning; I asked her to dine with us on Thursday."
"Is Elli Rhoeden coming too?" asked Oswald.
"If I am not mistaken she has gone to Kreuznach," observed Pistasch.
"Yes," said the Countess, "unfortunately we cannot depend upon her, but you will probably enjoy the society of Fräulein von Klette. Mimi will do her best to make her stay at home, but she cannot promise."
"Is she living still,--that Spanish fly?" asked Georges, surprised.
"Indeed she is, and with the same enormous appetite," Pistasch calmly declared, "I believe she is qualifying herself for the post of Minister of Finance; her talent for levying taxes is more brilliantly developed every year. Unfortunately her sphere of action is limited to the circle of her most intimate friends."
"It appears that she has just embarked in a novel and very interesting financial enterprise," remarked the Countess with a smile, "she is raffling a sofa cushion."
"Oh, that famous negro head," observed Pistasch, "she has been working at it for two years, and she issues a fresh batch of chances every three months."
"Before I forget it," said the Countess half to herself, "would you not like to write to Fritz to come to dinner day after to-morrow, Ossi? we shall be entirely by ourselves. He will feel at home, and I am always glad to entice him to forget his sorrows, if only for a few hours."
"I paid him a visit yesterday," said Georges, "he is going down hill very fast in health. He asked eagerly after you, Ossi, and mentioned that he had not seen you for a long while."
"Ossi avoids Schneeburg, for fear of an encounter with thePhylloxera vastatrixwho, as he prophesies, is to be the ruin of us all," said Pistasch banteringly.
Oswald had risen to light a cigarette at the lamp; his hand trembled a little. "I will write to Fritz, mamma," he said, "I am afraid I have rather neglected him of late."
"Our poor Count Fritz is going fast," said old Doctor Swoboda every time that he returned from Schneeburg to Rautschin and stopped at the inn to drink a glass of beer; this time he remarked it to Herr Alexander Cibulka, who always took a lively interest in Schneeburg.
"Ah, indeed? Well, he has not much to lose in this life," rejoined Eugène Alexander, "if I had to depend for my living upon alms, as he does, I'd put a bullet through my brains!" and Herr Cibulka ran his stubby fingers through his bushy hair. He was very proud of such unfeeling expressions, which he considered, Heaven only knows why, as particularly fashionable. "And how is the Conte Capriani?" he continued, "and the charming Ad'lin,--a superb creature, eh?" and Eugène Alexander affectedly wafted abroad a kiss from his finger tips.
"Don't know," growled the old doctor, "I don't associate with them."
"Ah, true," said Herr Cibulka compassionately, "I quite forgot, you do not associate with them."
Eugène Alexander Cibulka was the only man among thehaute voléeof the market-town who had enjoyed the honour of an invitation from Capriani. The invitation,--there was but one,--was to adéjeûner, and inspired him with not a little pride. He described it as a most memorable, 'brilliant episode,' in his monotonous existence, and he celebrated it in lyric phrases. What had so charmed him it would be hard to tell; Madame Capriani had found it impossible to understand him, although she had good-humouredly tried to do so,--his sentences were so interlarded with compliments,--and consequently she was obliged to confine herself to phrases of conventional courtesy; Adeline had spoken only in French, which of course excluded him from conversation with her, and when he picked up her handkerchief she thanked him as haughtily as if she resented his not presenting it on a salver; the Conte had urged him to partake of the various dishes, ringing the changes upon one invariable theme. "You had better take some--you don't get such a chance every day."
Modern culture had certainly treated him ill, but all the more was he convinced of its immense superiority. There was but one adjective that in his opinion, could in any wise fitly characterize the new household at Schneeburg, and that was, 'Sublime!'
Two years previously, in old Malzin times, he had also on some occasion or other dined at Schneeburg. The old Count had received him with distinguished, though formal, courtesy, had insisted upon his preceding him into the dining-hall, and had taken great pains to find subjects for conversation that should not exclude his guest. He had been very much better treated at Schneeburg then,--but no raptures came of it. On the contrary he had declared, with a shrug, that Count Malzin's style of living was very 'middle-class,'--that it was a pity too, that the Count spoke so low that it was difficult to understand him, and that really there had not been enough to eat.
In spite of the old Count's courtesy and of the simplicity of the dinner, Cibulka had somehow on that occasion been keenly sensible of the gulf between himself and the master of Schneeburg, and it seemed to him now that Capriani's millions had avenged him of the affront caused by the personal superiority of the former possessor of the Castle; this delighted him. It flattered his self-importance to hear Capriani--no one knew why,--call Castle Schneeburg a little hunting box, nothing but a hunting box, and then to hear him say: "Oh, Malzin,apropos, did you write to the saddler? You must make haste--indeed you are very dilatory!" And then, when Fritz had departed, to have the Crœ sus suddenly turn to him, to Cibulka, and remark confidentially, "that fellow, Malzin, is really an incumbrance, but what can one do?--he must be provided for."
Eugène Alexander, a despicable specimen of a despicable class, servilely rubbed his hands, and murmured, "The Herr Count is most generous, but indeed that is an easy matter for the Herr Count. Poor devil! I really am sorry for Malzin."
Poor devil indeed! The old doctor was right, Fritz was going fast. Every afternoon at the same hour he had a high fever,--he looked like a ghost. In speaking he had a habit of contracting his underlip, which gave to his face the hard, pain-begotten lines with which the pre-Raphalites portrayed the dying Christ. Ready at any minute to drop from fatigue, he was yet driven forth by constant restlessness to go dragging over forest and field, obliged at ever-lessening intervals to rest upon a stile, or upon the steps of some way-side cross. There he would sit gazing abroad and repeating to himself, with the exaggerated appreciation that men always cherish for that of which they are deprived, that Schneeburg was the finest estate in Bohemia. When he strode through the golden stubble fields, the reapers would gather about him and with many a merry, kindly word encircle his limbs, in accordance with an ancient Bohemian custom, with wreaths of straw. He would respond with some friendly jest, and purchase his release by a gratuity more in accordance with his former means than with his present circumstances.
The people were still loyal to him, to the peasants and day labourers he was always "OurHerr Count." Whenever he appeared among them they ran to him, kissed his hands, and invoked countless blessings upon him. There had been a time when he protested impatiently against these rather obtrusive demonstrations, but now he took pleasure in them. He knew the people almost all by name, and frequently talked with them, when to be sure they never failed to make some complaint against their new master, under whom in point of fact they were very well off; but they none the less complained of him just to please their Herr Count.
But though the peasants and labourers were thus loyal to him, the new servants and superintendants showed no such respect. The Conte had not retained in Schneeburg a single one of the former servants; he had dismissed them all without pensions. The knowledge of this had added bitterness to the old Count's last moments. He had interceded for his people, and when he could obtain nothing save vague promises, he had intended to use his influence elsewhere for their protection, but death had intervened and put an end to his good intentions. Probably none of the dismissed were worth much--the housekeeping at the Castle had been slipshod and easy-going,--all things had been allowed to take their own course. No provision for the old servants had been included in the original contract when they were first hired, and the income from Schneeburg had not been large enough to warrant the reservation of a pension fund, but no one had ever been dismissed on account of increasing age, or of physical infirmity. Almost all of them had been born upon the estate, and had expected to die there. And now, suddenly, Schneeburg was 'swept clean' of them, as the Conte expressed it. Some of them were plunged into hopeless poverty; Fritz discovered this, and the misery of not being able to provide forhispeople was an added pang.
Meanwhile there was a horde of new servants at Schneeburg, all young people, with modern ideas, fresh from industrial schools, stocked with correct views of their multifarious duties, and with independent opinions in politics.
At first, whenever Fritz met them, he greeted them with the kindly affability with which he was wont to treat inferiors, but this condescension from one in his circumstances seemed to them ridiculous; they laughed among themselves at his courtesy. He did not observe this for some time, and when he did so he simply took no notice of the menials. They however continued to ridicule him, and to clear away, pull down, and alter ruthlessly.
Whilst Fritz sat wearied and worn in his gloomy room, among his shabby relics, teaching his little daughter French, or his boy the alphabet, he could hear the thud of the falling stones, as the time-honoured out-buildings were being demolished, and every sound struck a direct blow at his poor, sore, foolish heart.
The Conte's behaviour towards him daily grew more intolerable, especially ever since his return from the election. Every petty disappointment was wreaked upon Fritz. Of course! Fritz was the only member 'of the caste' upon whom the Conte could vent his anger. His brutalities Fritz could endure, but what outraged him beyond measure was to have the Conte assume an air of frankness, and behind the mask of friendly interest presume to ask all sorts of personal questions,--the bitterest of pills for Malzin!
"Oh Heavens, how long am I to be in gaining the summit of Calvary?" the poor fellow sometimes asked himself.
To-day he had been visited by a ray of light, emanating from the cordial, affectionate note, in which Oswald invited him to the family-dinner at Tornow. "Forgive me for not having seen you for so long," Oswald concluded, "only remember all that I have to do. The castle is turned upside down in anticipation of a certain coming event, but, nevertheless, we shall be heartily glad to keep you with us for a couple of days. But we will discuss this to-morrow."
Of course Fritz accepted the invitation. He knew that it would bring on a scene with his wife--but what, after all, did he care for that? He could not but anticipate the morrow with pleasure, and after he had dispatched his reply by the Tornow messenger, he walked out into the park.
It was early in August, and the floods of rain which had fallen in June and July had been followed by stifling sultriness. Fritz was both stimulated and wearied by the state of the atmosphere, without being conscious of any special degree of heat. His disease had made such progress that he was subject to chilly sensations, even when the thermometer stood very high. As usual, he sought out the most retired paths of the park, paths where he felt sure of meeting no one, and of being able to indulge unmolested in his customary day-dreams.
He reached a miniature lake, embosomed among proud, old firs, its surface glassy as a mirror held aloft by the nixies to the sky. Tall reeds with brown heads fringed its shores, and nodded to the white waterlilies reposing among their flat, green leaves. Perfect silence reigned; not only did the stately firs preserve their customary, dignified quiet, but even the leafy trees were too listless to-day to exhale their wonted 'murmur mixed with sighs.' Each leaf drooped wearily. No bird uttered a note, the stillness was as profound as in mid-winter. Nature lay motionless, no audible pulse throbbing, sunk, as it seemed, in a mysterious swoon.
Fritz sat down upon a bench rudely constructed of birch boughs, and gazed dreamily around. As always when alone, his thoughts reverted to the past, and now he smiled at a memory of langsyne. He recalled how as a child he had tried here to learn from the gardener's sons how to skip pebbles on the surface of the water. He had succeeded but ill; his pebbles all sunk directly to the bottom. He remembered too that very near this small lake there was once a little hut with a mossgrown, shingled roof, resting upon four fir-tree trunks. There the little Malzins had played Robinson Crusoe; the hut had been a fort besieged by savages. Perhaps it was no longer in existence; Capriani might have had it cleared away; Fritz arose to look for it.
It was still there; he could see the gilt crescent sparkling on the gable of the old, shingled roof. As he approached it he heard voices, and would have withdrawn, had he not recognized them as those of his wife and Capriani. In some irritation he drew nearer, but found nothing to justify any interference; Charlotte was sitting busy with some sewing, while the Conte was talking to her,--that was all.
When Fritz, with his pale face of disapproval appeared in the doorway of the summer-house, an ugly smile passed over the features of the Conte. "You come in the nick of time," Capriani said carelessly, and without the least embarrassment. "Sit down, we were just talking about you."
"Indeed? very kind," murmured Fritz, taking a seat, and glancing rather sternly at his wife.
"We were just speaking of your children. Hm, my dear Malzin,"--the Conte stroked his long whiskers,--"have you laid by anything for those youngsters?"
Fritz cast down his eyes. "How could I have done so?" he rejoined in a monotone.
"You certainly might lay by something from your present salary," the Conte said with emphasis.
"You seem entirely to forget that I have only had my present salary for two months," said Fritz bluntly.
The Conte bit his lip. "Oho!" he exclaimed, "have I offended you again? I assure you I mean well, very well by you. Tell me your views with regard to the future of your children."
Fritz shrugged his shoulders. "I really have none; the poor things will have to shift for themselves," and his voice trembled.
"Of course you mean then to give them a good education, to enable them to earn their own living," continued the Conte. "That is all right, but allow me to ask how you mean to do this?"
Fritz passed his hand--the white, transparent hand of consumption--wearily across his forehead. "I hope to send my little girl to Hernals," he began, "where she can be educated for a governess."
"Ah--!" the Conte looked disapproval--"a very unpractical scheme, it seems to me, very unpractical. She will become very pretentious in her ideas at Hernals, and will gain but little that can be of real service to her. Remember your circumstances, my dear fellow, remember your circumstances,--we will discuss them by-and-by. And what do you think of doing with your son?"
"Oh Franzi is still so little," said Fritz in hopes of cutting short the conversation, the Conte's arrogant, domineering tone was most irritating, it stung him like nettles.
"All the more reason for providing for his future," the Conte insisted, "in consideration of the chance of your being suddenly taken from him."
"True, true," sighed Fritz. "Well then, I hope to live long enough to place him in a government school for Cadets, after which through the influence of my relatives, he can obtain a commission."
The Conte laughed contemptuously. "Just like you!" he exclaimed, "the same haughty, aristocratic idler as ever! You'll learn sense after a while, my dear fellow. I have thought of something for Franzi; your wife is quite agreed to it." Charlotte who had seemed to be absorbed in her sewing, nodded.
"The Countess always takes a sensible view of affairs, she looks things in the face," continued the Conte; "begging your pardon, my dear fellow, there is more common-sense in her little finger than in your whole body. We will find Franzi a place in a dry-goods establishment. The business is neither unhealthy, nor confining, and if it goes against your grain to put him in such a situation here in Austria (to speak frankly I think any such objection very petty,--my views in this respect are more enlightened) why I will see that he gets one in Paris at theLouvreor at thePrintemps; a clerk in one of those great houses often gets a yearly salary of from fifteen to twenty thousand francs!"
Fritz started to his feet and made several attempts to interrupt the Conte, but his voice failed. A singing was in his ears, his blood was coursing hotly, wildly through his veins. "My son!" he gasped hoarsely, "my son, clerk in a dry-goods shop! I'd rather kill him myself!"
He felt a terrible oppression in his chest, and then came sudden relief; in an instant he grew deadly pale with bluish tints about his eyes and temples. He stretched out his hands aimlessly as if to ward off some catastrophe, not knowing why he did so,--then mechanically felt for his handkerchief, pressed it to his lips, and fell senseless on the floor.
The Lodrins dined early during the warm summer months; they wished to have the cooler hours of the late afternoon for riding, driving or walking. The dinner on Thursday at which Fritz was to have been present was at two o'clock, but at the last moment he sent an excuse without any special cause assigned.
Of course Fräulein von Klette had not been persuaded to stay at home. Erect as a grenadier, and with an enormous reticule to contain her sewing, her headdress, and any chance presents that she might receive, she made her appearance with Mimi Dey, who good-humouredly assured the Countess Lodrin, for the tenth time that Ossi and Gabrielle were incomparably the handsomest betrothed couple in Austria, and then greeted Zinka with perhaps rather exaggerated cordiality. Thanks to the imitative instinct that rules the world, all the ladies of the vicinity modelled their behaviour towards Zinka upon that of the Countess Lodrin. Mimi Dey had declared lately to several of her acquaintances who were asking about Erich Truyn's marriage, "Zinka is as much of a lady as I am," and this significant verdict had its share in establishing upon a firm basis Zinka's social position.
Pistasch watched Zinka curiously; with all his languid insolence, he was possessed of sufficient tact to perceive what she was and to comport himself towards her accordingly. As usual, when not in the bosom of her family, she was rather silent; her gentle voice was heard only occasionally; she looked very pretty, and seemed to be occupied with anything rather than her own beauty, with every one else rather than with herself.
The two topics of the hour were the upset that had befallen young Capriani and his four-in-hand the day before, and the murder of an old widow in a village near Schneeburg. The accident to the four-in-hand of course afforded all the gentlemen the liveliest satisfaction; they were unanimous in their surprise that the catastrophe had been delayed so long; the murder in Karlowitz opened for Truyn a wide field of moral and political considerations. As this murder was the first that had occurred within the memory of man in all the country round, he did not hesitate for a moment to ascribe it to the demoralizing influence of Capriani.
There is probably no evil, from a murder to an epidemic, which Truyn would not have liked to trace directly or indirectly to the sinister influence of Conte Capriani. Oswald who had been merry enough at first gradually grew taciturn and monosyllabic.
"Capriani's ears must tingle," he exclaimed at last, no longer controlling his impatience, "can we talk of nothing else but that scoundrel!"
"Do not grudge us this innocent amusement," rejoined Truyn good-humouredly, and Pistasch added, "I cannot see why it should make you nervous. The mere sound of Capriani's name affects you as an allusion to the cholera affects other men." Oswald changed colour, and Georges proposed a toast to the betrothed couple.
After dinner, whilst they were all drinking coffee in the drawing-room, Pistasch contrived atête-à-têtewith his cousin Mimi Dey for the purpose of asking all sorts of questions about Zinka, which he could not well put directly to the Lodrins. "Is she the same Sterzl about whom there was so much talk in Rome? The girl who--etc.,--etc.?--a very delightful person, really charming." It was beginning to be the fashion to declare Zinka charming.
In the meantime the heroine of the Roman romance, was sitting beside the Countess Lodrin on a small divan in a dim corner of the spacious room, and whispering, "Have you heard?"
"Of course I have! Ossi learned it from your husband; I congratulate you with all my heart," replied the Countess in a low tone, taking the young wife's hand in her own.
"And you understand how very glad I am," whispered Zinka, blushing, and brushing away a tear.
The Countess smiled her own grave beautiful smile, and nodded assent; Zinka moved a little closer to her. "Who should understand it better than you?" she whispered. She felt a positive reverence for the Countess, whose kind and tender treatment of her she could not but regard as a special mark of favour and distinction. The childlike deference of her manner towards the elder lady was very graceful and very winning.
"If--if the good God should grant me a son," she whispered more softly still, and with a deeper blush, "I should like to learn from you how to educate him."
Countess Wjera laid her hand kindly on Zinka's shoulder. "Your husband will be a better teacher there than I can be; that Ossi is what he is is due to the grace of God,--not to me."
"And is it by God's grace alone, that Ossi has preserved so profound and filial a veneration for his mother?"
The Countess took her hand from Zinka's shoulder; the younger woman, startled, gazed into her face.
"It is nothing," said Wjera, with a forced smile, "a pain in my heart--it will soon pass."
Mimi Dey, with Pistasch, was approaching the corner where the Countess and Zinka were sitting, and noticing Wjera's sudden pallor, inquired as to its cause, instantly vaunting the merits of a certain specific, in which she had implicit confidence. As soon as Fräulein Klette observed that the conversation was taking a medical turn, she too joined the group. "Wjera, I know a wonderful remedy; a Swiss physician, gave me the prescription,--it really will cure everything,--everything."
"From scrofula to 'despised love,'" added Pistasch. He knew the famous prescription well, and knew, too, that it was the basis of one of Fräulein Klette's numerous financial manœ uvres.
"It really is an extraordinary remedy, Wjera, and it would do you good, too, Mimi;--it would be the very thing for Zinka I am sure," Fräulein Klette rattled on. "I have wrought wonders with it. Do let me have a few bottles of it put up for you."
"You needn't take that trouble, Carolin," said Pistasch maliciously, "I have two or three quarts of your specific on hand, and it will give me pleasure to supply the ladies."
"As you please, I do not insist," said the Fräulein chagrined; whereupon she drew from her reticule the famous negro's head and with great energy and a very long thread began to embroider a sulphurous gleam on his ebony nose.
The fierce heat of the day is over, the rays of the westering sun cast mildly gleaming bands of gold here and there amid the pleasing confusion of furniture in the drawing-room, where both coverings and hangings of Flemish stuff made the prevailing colour a dim, cool green.
The world forgetting, the betrothed pair were standing by a little table whereon was a large, blue Sèvres vase, filled with crimson Jacqueminot roses, a vase, whereof the depressing shape was that of a funeral urn, and whereof the decorations were after the pedantic taste of the first Empire, with medallions of gaudy flowers upon a dark-blue surface. Oswald and Gabrielle had just agreed in declaring the vase almost as hideous as the pretentious monstrosity placed in the library of the Vatican as a memorial of Napoleonic generosity.
"Mamma's Russian relatives have a positive passion for blue Sèvres vases, and green malachite table tops upon gilded tripods," said Oswald, "but one cannot throw a well-meant gift out of doors!"
And then they went on to talk of the future, of their wedding-trip which was to be to the East, and to laugh over certain events of the first days of their young affection, in that fair spring-time in Paris. Suddenly Gabrielle interrupted their talk with "Now you are yourself again, but at dinner you looked so cross, I was absolutely afraid of you!"
"Oh, you foolish little girl, how could you be afraid of me?"
"You mean that a great lion like you, is far too noble to hurt a poor little King Charles!"
He shook his head, saying, "I never should think of comparing you to a King Charles."
"To what would you compare me then?" she asked, lifting her large, shining eyes to his.
"Are you angling for flattery, Ella?" he said banteringly.
"Flattery from you?" was her half-offended reply.
"Ah, I did not mean that,--I will tell you to what I love to liken you," he whispered very softly, leaning towards her,--"to a white lily, Ella,--you are just as pure and fair, with a golden heart deep down in your breast."
Her dark-blue eyes glittered with tears of tenderness.
"Oh Ella, if you only knew how I long to clasp you in my arms this moment, and kiss away the tears from those dear eyes! But ...." and he gave a glance around.
"No one is looking," she said saucily.
It was true; the ladies were absorbed in teazing Pistasch about his last conquest, and Truyn and Georges were again at it in argument over the internal policy of the government; but none the less did the sound of her own audacious little speech startle Gabrielle, and when Oswald with a merry glance whispered "Say that again, Gabrielle," she turned away.
"How Papa is shouting!" she observed in order to change the subject as quickly as possible. And in fact Truyn's voice is tolerably loud as he utters the significant, momentous words: "It is our mission to protect the people from the influence of ambitious political theorists, and from its own folly!"
"He is in a downright fury," assents Oswald, "let us try to calm him, Ella." And as they went together towards the two politicians, Oswald said, "Would you not like to have a rubber, uncle, before you carry out your mission?"
Truyn, as became his age, had a weakness for whist, quite as pronounced as for politics, and therefore accepted the proposal. The ladies were politely invited to play, but no one accepted save Fräulein Klette, and since Pistasch refused point-blank to have her for a partner, the four gentlemen sat down to the game by themselves.
The sunbeams slant more and more, one long, level ray is now shining directly through the bouquet of crimson roses in the ugly Sèvres vase, the flowers glow like strange, weird jewels.
A carriage stopped before the castle. "Who can it be?" said Countess Lodrin.
It was the Baroness Melkweyser. The customary greetings over, she begged the gentlemen not to let her interrupt their game, and sank into an arm-chair beside the Countess Lodrin. "I hope I do not disturb you!" she exclaimed. "I really could not stand it another hour over there. I was perfectly wild!"
"Aha!" Mimi Dey smiled provokingly. "I cannot pity you as much as you seem to expect, Zoë; I thought you would repent it, when I heard you were staying with those queer people."
"What would you have?" said the Baroness meekly enough, "I have known those Caprianis ever so long, they live magnificently in Paris."
"Indeed?" asked Mimi, "does any one visit them?"
"Oh yes, crowned heads even," said Zinka, "and especially Princes of the blood travelling incog."
"Oh, they--why, they go even to theMabille," said Mimi, "and--well--perhaps there is a certain similarity between ....!"
"Oh, no, no," interrupted Zoë, "they have very decent manners; Capriani even turned out of his house lately a person who came without an invitation."
"Really?" said Zinka, "that, certainly, shows great progress; but is it true that at the Conte's last ball neither the eldest daughter, nor her husband was present?"
"Yes," Zoë admitted. "Those are some of the insolent airs with which Larothière contrives to awe his father-in-law."
"Go on," said Mimi.
"I do not say that only theéliteappear at these balls.C'est toujours le monde à côté, as they say in Paris, but,--good Heavens! these Caprianis have been of service to me, and they always heaped me with attentions, but here they are beginning to behave positively disagreeably to me."
"Perhaps your services in your native country have not answered their expectations," said Mimi, "Pistasch told me that you had been invited to Schneeburg on purpose to introduce the Caprianis into Austrian society. Was that only one of his poor jokes, or ...."
"I really did promise to do my best ...."
"My dear Zoë'," exclaimed Mimi Dey horrified, "had you clean forgotten your Austria?"
"No, I had not forgotten it, only I fancied that in the last twenty-five years you might have conformed somewhat to the spirit of the age; but no, you are precisely the same as ever. When will you cease to entrench yourselves behind triple barriers?"
"When we feel sure that no suspicious individual will try to invade our realm," said Mimi; "our circle, moreover, is quite large enough, and if we are asked to admit a stranger, at least we have a right to discover beforehand whether he will or will not be an acquisition."
That this didactic little speech was uttered principally for her edification, the Countess Truyn was perfectly aware. She merely smiled calmly.
"I have no prejudices," asserted Fräulein Klette boldly. "I am perfectly ready to be introduced to the Caprianis."
"Yes, you are a great philosopher," replied Mimi, gravely patting her on the shoulder, "we all know that."
"I shall not fail to represent to Capriani the advantage to be derived from your acquaintance," said Zoë drily. "And now I must make haste and execute a commission; I should really prefer to extricate myself from these associations, but since I have got into the claws of this vulture I must keep him in good humour at least until he has gotten my finances into a better condition. And that brings me to what I have to ask of you, Wjera; I want you to do me a great favour." Up to this point the Countess Lodrin had taken no part in the conversation, but had continued, apparently lost in thought, to work away with her large wooden needles at her woollen piece of knitting. Zinka, who had been watching her, thought her unusually pale. "A favour? What is it?" asked the Countess.
"It is about your 'old Vienna' set of china, which you used to be so anxious to complete. The other half was at Schneeburg, and now belongs to Capriani. When he learned from me that you--er--were very fond of the set, he--er--asked me,--very kindly, as you must admit,--to offer you his half."
The Countess's large wooden needles clicked louder, and more busily than ever, but she said not a word in reply.
"You really would do me a very great favour, Wjera," persisted the baroness, "three weeks ago he asked me to say this to you, and I have only to-day brought myself to do it. You will embarrass me exceedingly by rejecting the china."
Then Wjera with a quick angry gesture dropped her work, and looked up. Her face in its stern pallor was like chiselled marble, but a dark glow shone in her eyes; Zinka thought that she had never beheld anything more beautiful or more haughty than that face at that moment. "What price does your Herr Capriani ask for the china?" she asked curtly.
"Price?--Price?--he will deem himself only too happy by your acceptance of it...!"
"Ossi, that's a revoke!" exclaimed Pistasch spreading out two tricks upon the whist-table.
"He is playing very carelessly," remarked Truyn.
"Every allowance must be made for a man in love," said Georges kindly as he shuffled the cards.
Oswald, whose back was towards his mother, heard her say: "Your Monsieur Capriani's officiousness seems to me to pass all bounds. Pray tell himde ma partthat I am quite ready to buy the service of him, at any price that he may name, however high, but that it is not my habit to accept gifts from those with whom I neither have nor wish to have any social intercourse."
"But, good Heavens! I had forgotten one half of my message," said Zoë, striking her forehead. "He expressly hoped that you would see in this little attention nothing more than a proof of respectful esteem from a former servant,--he would not venture to say friend,--of your family. He assures me that he attended yourself and your husband years ago while you were in the Riviera, and he declares that if you do not recognise Conte Capriani, you will surely remember Doctor--Doctor--I have forgotten the name--but at any rate the doctor that you had there."
"Why it must be Stein!" exclaimed Fräulein Klette.
"Yes, that was the name," said Zoë.
"Why, I knew him," Fräulein Klette went on eagerly. "You must remember me to him; he was practising at Nice, when I spent the winter with the Orczinskas. The women raved about him--he was a very handsome man then, and he had invented a hygienic corset, all the women wore it.--You must have known him too, Wjera. I am certain that I met him once at your villa, that winter that you and your husband passed in the Riviera."
"He declares that he attended your husband," said Zoë.
There was a brief--a very brief pause, and then the Countess said clearly and distinctly, "Possibly, but it does not interest me, and you can tell him from me that I do not remember it!"
"How young you look when you're angry, Wjera," said Mimi Dey, laughing, "the old demon flashes in your eyes when you're vexed."
"There's a deal of pleasure in playing whist with you, Ossi," exclaimed Truyn at the same moment,--he was Oswald's partner,--"that's five trumps that you have thrown away--I had a slam in my hand."
"How could I guess that you had anything in diamonds?"
"I led."
"Clubs."
"No, diamonds! Just look."
"Don't you think that Ossi, when he puts on that gloomy face, looks astonishingly like young Capriani?" observed Pistasch.
No longer master of himself Oswald threw his cards down on the table.
"Come, come, behave yourself, Ossi," said Truyn.
"There's no use in trying to jest with you: you are as sensitive as a commoner," grumbled Pistasch.
"Let us rather say as irritable as a crowned head," said Georges laughing, "Les extrèmes se touchent."
"I really believe it is the reappearance of your old family spectre which must have affected your nerves lately, Ossi," Pistasch said innocently.
"Which family spectre are you talking of?" asked Oswald hoarsely.
"Have you several of them then?" asked Pistasch. "I know only of the blind one that laughs--my man told me to-day while I was dressing that it has been heard laughing again. The butler had told him so."
"The gardener was talking to me of it to-day too," said Georges, "but I told him that there have been no ghosts since '48; ghosts as an institution were quite done away with by the March revolution, whereupon, as he is an aspiring person addicted to free thinking he replied that he had arrived at that same conclusion himself."
"Stupid superstition!" muttered Oswald; then controlling himself by an effort he said very quietly, but pale as ashes. "Shall we not have another rubber?"