Returned to Traunberg, he wandered slowly through all the rooms of the castle. Then he had tea served in his room, drank a cupful, and ate a trifle. He laid his watch upon the table. At twelve o'clock all should be finished, he decided.
The cold calm of resolution gave way to the exciting feeling of expectation.
He seated himself at his writing-table, thoughtfully he rested his head in his hand, then he dipped the pen into ink, and wrote a long letter. He read it through with a certain pedantry, added here and there a comma, or made a letter plainer, placed the letter in an envelope, and addressed it to Elsa.
His glance fell upon the watch--the hands pointed to quarter past eleven. He rose and walked up and down uneasily. He began to ask himself whether he had forgotten nothing, began to unconsciously seek reasons for postponing his act.
His brow was bathed with cold sweat. He looked for his revolver and Toledo dagger, which both had formerly lain upon his table. They were gone. Evidently his valet had removed them. The razors also were hidden.
Felix smiled bitterly. Then he drew a little English penknife from his pocket, sharpened it upon an ash-receiver, and laid it on the table beside his bed. Then, with folded hands, he crouched for a few minutes beside his bed. He thought of the promise not to kill himself which he had once given to his father. The promise could have no weight except during the life of the old man.
When he looked again, the hands of the watch pointed to quarter before twelve. His heart beat loudly. A moment of irresolution came. Then from without a little soft bird cry floated in to him. He suddenly heard again Gery's voice, "Who is 'the certain Lanzberg,' papa?"
Then he undressed himself, took the penknife, and with firm stroke cut through the veins and arteries in his left wrist and ankle.
He rose once more to extinguish the candles on the table beside his bed, then he sank back among the pillows.
He felt the warm blood flowing from him, and experienced a kind of disgust; then he murmured with a sigh, "Blood washes all things clean."
The triumphal fanfare of the madrilèna vibrated around him; the excitement which had burned within him throughout the whole time was for a moment increased tenfold.
But the madrilèna died away, and the fearful memories faded, the great painful weariness which had almost paralyzed him recently, preventing him from sleeping, vanished--he felt easier and easier.
A comfortable drowsiness overcame him, and a thousand pictures changed before his dreamy dim eyes.
He saw himself in the school-room, beside his tutor, and smiled at the expression with which the tutor drew his cuffs down over his knuckles when Elsa's Frenchbonneentered the room.
The present had vanished, his thoughts wandered further and further back into the past.
He sits beside his mother in the church, small and sleepy. Through an open window the fresh spring air blows in to the atmosphere of mould and incense of the sacred edifice.
From half-closed eyes he sees a crowd of red peasant women, sees the little school-boys who crowd as near as possible to the carvedprie-dieusof the gentry. One of them winks at him.
The priest elevates the host. Little Felix's tired eyes close, the peasants fade into a large red spot, the colored shadows of the church windows lie on the bare, gray stone pavement like a carpet. His head sinks upon his mother's arm. All is rosy vapor around him. Then his mother kisses him on the forehead and whispers, "It is over; wake up!"
The next morning a messenger came breathlessly to Steinbach. With gloomy obstinacy he refused to gratify the domestic's urgent questions. He desired to speak personally with the Baron.
Erwin came. He was fearfully startled at the messenger's communication. Then as with distressed slowness he crossed the corridor to Elsa's room, she met him, pale as death, but calm. "A messenger has come from Traunberg. Felix has taken his life," she said in a hollow voice, with eyes fixed upon Erwin. She had guessed. With hand on her heart, her eyes closed, she remained for a moment speechless. Erwin feared a swoon, and with gentle force tried to lead her back to her room, but she resisted. "Order the carriage," she begged with almost inaudible voice; "I should like to go over there."
Erwin accompanied her.
An uneasy quiet, broken by the mysterious whispers of the domestics, pervaded Castle Traunberg. The servants all stood around in solemn idleness. Mrs. Stifler and the valet were busied with the corpse. They withdrew when Elsa entered the chamber of death.
Slowly she approached the bed. There he lay--Felix!--his corpse.
His head rested gently on the pillow; one saw that a lovely dream had helped the dying man across the threshold of eternity. The original beauty of his features, which life, with its shattering conflicts, had almost destroyed, death had restored again.
Elsa kissed the corpse; she wept quietly and bitterly; she reproached herself a thousand times with not having shown her brother love enough, with not having helped him bravely enough to bear the heavy burden of his life.
Then she noticed a letter, addressed to her, upon the table beside the bed.
A quarter of an hour later she joined Erwin, who waited for her in the adjoining room. There were still tears on her cheeks, but in her eyes shone a kind of solemn pride. She handed Erwin the open letter. He read:
Dear Elsa:You will be startled at what I have done. Forgive me this, as you have already forgiven me so much. I die not as a cowardly suicide, but as a man who has sentenced himself to death.The conviction has strengthened in my mind, that my life is of use and pleasure to no one. My own child begins to be saddened by the oppressive atmosphere which surrounds me. My shadow has long darkened your existence.After my death you will reproach yourself, dear, good heart; will fancy that you could have been better and more considerate to me than you have already been. Do not torment yourself. I remember nothing of you but unwearied love and tender compassion. May God bless you a thousand times, you and yours.Take my poor child to your home. Erwin will bring the boy up better than I could have done. Do not show my corpse to him, and put no mourning on him. I do not wish to be the cause of a single bitter hour to his poor little heart. Tell him I have gone on a journey. He will forget me.Never tell him, I beg you, of my disgrace, and if he learns of it through strangers, then--then tell him that I loved him beyond everything, and that I took my life so that I need never blush before him.Lay the little lock of golden hair which I cut from his head in Rome upon my breast. You will find it in the upper left drawer of my writing-desk, and put the old soldier's coat which I wore at Sadowa upon me. (Stifler knows where it is.) It is the only article of clothing in which I dare stretch myself out beside my ancestors for eternal rest, or appear before them for eternal reconciliation; who knows!A last kiss for my child. Farewell! and forgive"The Certain Lanzberg."
Dear Elsa:
You will be startled at what I have done. Forgive me this, as you have already forgiven me so much. I die not as a cowardly suicide, but as a man who has sentenced himself to death.
The conviction has strengthened in my mind, that my life is of use and pleasure to no one. My own child begins to be saddened by the oppressive atmosphere which surrounds me. My shadow has long darkened your existence.
After my death you will reproach yourself, dear, good heart; will fancy that you could have been better and more considerate to me than you have already been. Do not torment yourself. I remember nothing of you but unwearied love and tender compassion. May God bless you a thousand times, you and yours.
Take my poor child to your home. Erwin will bring the boy up better than I could have done. Do not show my corpse to him, and put no mourning on him. I do not wish to be the cause of a single bitter hour to his poor little heart. Tell him I have gone on a journey. He will forget me.
Never tell him, I beg you, of my disgrace, and if he learns of it through strangers, then--then tell him that I loved him beyond everything, and that I took my life so that I need never blush before him.
Lay the little lock of golden hair which I cut from his head in Rome upon my breast. You will find it in the upper left drawer of my writing-desk, and put the old soldier's coat which I wore at Sadowa upon me. (Stifler knows where it is.) It is the only article of clothing in which I dare stretch myself out beside my ancestors for eternal rest, or appear before them for eternal reconciliation; who knows!
A last kiss for my child. Farewell! and forgive
"The Certain Lanzberg."
Erwin's eyes were moist. "He was indeed a noble nature," said he gently and hoarsely, as he gave the letter back to Elsa.
"Yes," cried she, with a kind of pride. "He was really noble; therefore he tormented himself to death."
Erwin drew the convulsively sobbing woman to his breast.
Three days later the funeral took place.
All the inhabitants of the country round of his rank were present; even Count L---- came to show Felix the last honors. All were deeply shocked. Suicide, against which in general they cherished the Catholic abhorrence, seemed to them in this case justified. They saw in this act almost the repayment of an outlawed debt.
From that day the byword with which they had formerly designated Felix changed. They never again called him "the certain Lanzberg," but now always "the unfortunate Lanzberg."
He was rehabilitated!