CHAPTER XIXANDREA GOES AN ERRAND
“Christinehad left Jézero exactly eighteen months before it was given to me to see her again, excellency. Think not that I had put her from my mind. Far from it. She was to me then, as ever, a daughter to be beloved. Could my hand have helped her, it had been raised to her assistance every hour of my life. But God had willed it otherwise. I knew not even in what city she had made her home. I was welcome no longer at the house of Count Paul. The priest did not answer my letter when I reminded him of the services I had rendered. Strange tales came to me upon the lips of gossipers. I heard that the château at Jézero was now like a tomb of the living. They told me that the Lord Count himself went to Vienna no more. They spoke of decay and desolation, of solitude and silence; of a master who shewed his trouble to none, and yet was troubled that he must hide it. They said that the shadow of a great solitude had come uponthe house—and all for lack of a child’s pretty face.
“I heard these things, but it was many months before I saw them for myself. Two summers had passed when the message came—a letter from Father Mark bidding me go to Jézero. So quick was I to answer that I rode up to the great house three days after the summons reached me, and found myself immediately in the presence of the priest. He told me that the Count had been called to the autumn manœuvres at Brod; and the opportunity being welcome to him, he had sent for me at once to discuss a matter of much moment to us both.
“‘Few things have happened here, Signor Andrea,’ he said, ‘since the day you left us. I wish it were otherwise. You see for yourself what a state we are in—the rooms half-painted, as they were on the day the child left us; the gardens running to weed; half the servants sent about their business. He will do nothing and have nothing done. He sees no one. He is never out of his study except when his work calls him——’
“‘And he never asks for news of her?’
“‘Her name has never passed his lips but once since she left him. That was six months ago, when I told myself that he was beginning to forget. He said it quite suddenly when we were talking of his sister at Vienna. “She will send to me when she has need of me,” he said. I thought at first that he spoke of my lady; but he was thinking of the little one. And he will think always. The majority of men have never loved a woman. Affection for them is a little spark of sympathy and admiration and desire, which burns itself out in the first summer of its gratification. We, in our own little way, tried to stand against the love which was born of nature in the hearts of these two. We might as well have tried to drain the Plevna with our buckets. Time has taught me to look back upon those days with lasting regret. It is a reproach to me that I sought to break in upon that sacred confidence—a confidence which none should share. I would give half my years if the shadow might pass from this house.’
“‘Father,’ said I, ‘there is one way, and one only, by which such a thing might come to pass. It would be the death of Christine’s husband.’
“‘Exactly—but how if he be dead already?’
“‘Holy Virgin!’ said I, ‘you think that?’
“‘I know not what to think. Three months ago I heard that the girl was singing in Vienna at the Café des Trois Mousquetaires. They told me other stories as well—of men that danced attendance at her heels and fools who made much of her.’
“‘It is a lie!’ cried I, so loudly that he started back from me, ‘a lie, I call my God to witness! There is no purer woman in Austria. Show me the man that told the tale and I will strike him on the mouth!’
“‘Come,’ said he, ‘this is no time for the display of such boasts as these. Had you been so very anxious, my friend, necessity would have found some way of bringing you to Vienna before this.’
“‘Nay,’ said I; ‘the Lord be my judge if I have had the money. Was it to hear this that you sent for me to Sebenico? Oh, surely, I did well to leave my business!’
“‘Not so fast, Signor Andrea. I am not the man to summon you here upon a fool’s errand. And I make sure that you will be very content when you have heard me out.’
“I bowed my head at this, and was the more pleased, excellency, since my affairs at Sebenico had gone ill with me for some time past. ‘This priest,’ I said, ‘does not forget that I am an old man, and that poverty is a good friend of mine. If he has need of me, surely he will remember my right to a poor man’s wage.’
“‘Father,’ said I, ‘what service I can give shall be given from my heart for love of little Christine. It will fall heavily upon me to leave my business now, at this busy time, when——’
“‘I have thought of that,’ said he, ‘and have made provision against it. Here are notes for five hundred guldens. With this sum you will set out at once for Vienna, and there you will learn all that is to be known of Christine. Good or ill, you will keep nothing from me. They tell me that her husband was with her daily until this last month, but that he has now disappeared from the city, and there is no news of him. Go, then, and learn what you can of this. You will lose nothing by the journey. And if you can bring me intelligence of the man’s death, I promise you that you shall return to Sebenico no more.’
“‘Gladly will I go,’ cried I, ‘and the saints be my witness that no thought of myself shall find me loitering on the way. Blessed be God that I am to see my child again!’
“The same night, excellency, I set out for Travnik. In two days I was in Vienna.”