Napoleon stood up. Once more his eyes looked searchingly round the room.
"In this room, then, Madame Lenormand entertained the emperor?" he asked.
"In this very room, sire," said Madame Moreau, rising, "only the arrangement of the furniture has been slightly changed."
"I thank you, madame," said Napoleon, "follow my horoscope, I shall be glad to hear more from you!"
And with a friendly smile, he walked to the door, which Madame Moreau opened for him, the lamp in her hand.
On the stairs he took Piétri's arm and said:
"Stay, madame, I do not wish to be recognized. I rely on your discretion. Adieu!"
The quiet-looking carriage drove quickly back to the Tuileries.
When he re-entered his cabinet, the emperor seated himself at his writing-table. Piétri stood beside him:
Napoleon wrote:
"My dear Monsieur Drouyn de Lhuys,--
"I herewith send you an explanation of the reasons which, according to my unalterable decision, render a moderate policy necessary on the part of France, with regard to recent events in Germany. I do not doubt that you will entirely share my views, and I beg you to believe in my sincere friendship."
And he signed it, "Napoleon."
He handed the paper silently to Piétri.
"Sire," he said, after reading it, "who does your majesty destine to be the successor of Monsieur Drouyn de Lhuys?"
"Moustiers knows the state of affairs in Berlin well," said the emperor; "prepare a letter to him beforehand, to inquire if he will undertake the guidance of foreign affairs."
Piétri bowed.
"One thing more," said Napoleon, "let Hansen come to me early to-morrow morning, we will makeonemore effort."
"At your majesty's command."
"What do you think of Madame Moreau?" asked the emperor, who had already turned towards the door leading to his private apartments, as he paused for a moment. "How could she know that episode of my youth?" he whispered in a low voice.
"Sire," replied Piétri, "it is difficult to say."
"'There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy,'" said Napoleon in perfect English; and with a friendly nod he dismissed his secretary.
In a somewhat large salon adjoining the bedroom of his comfortable bachelor apartments, in one of the old-fashioned houses of a quiet part of the town, Lieutenant von Stielow, the morning after his return, lay upon a large sofa covered with dark red silk.
Half-closed curtains of the same colour hung before the window, admitting a subdued light into the room, where complete quiet prevailed, only broken from time to time by a carriage belonging to one of the aristocracy rolling swiftly past.
The young man wore a wide morning wrapping coat of black silk, with scarlet collar and facings; beside him stood a small table with a beautiful silver tea service; he slowly smoked a short chibouk, from which the fragrant clouds of Turkish tobacco floated about the room, and his features expressed perfect happiness and calm content. After the long privations and fatigues of camp life, the young officer for the first time enjoyed the quiet and rich comfort around him, and with happy looks he greeted everything; the numerous objects which his room contained, the paintings, the engravings, the curious arms, the bits of old Dresden china, in short all the thousand things which the good taste or passing fancy of a wealthy and cultivated young man collects in his rooms.
All this, which he had formerly been so accustomed to that he scarcely deemed it worthy of a glance, now smiled upon him with the charm of novelty; for so long his eyes had only seen pictures of privation, of horror, and of death, that the surroundings of his previous life met him with a greeting full of charm; then he thought of his love, of the dangers which had surrounded him upon the battle-fields, of the frightful peril which had threatened his young pure love from wicked machinations, of his happy preservation amidst the bullets and swords of the enemy, of the good fortune that had brought him back at the right moment to destroy those machinations, finally, of the hopes which were now his own without an obstacle. No wonder that his eyes beamed, that his lips smiled, and that the world looked as fair, as bright, and as charming as it only can appear to a young heart who sees itself possessed of everything that can make life one sweet enjoyment.
He had promised the Countess Frankenstein to take no step against the person who had made the low attempt on her daughter and himself. "Let us never again speak of those creatures, or remember anything of the affair, except to thank God who brought their wickedness to shame," said Clara, with a gentle smile; and so great is the elasticity of a heart of one-and-twenty, so great the conciliatory power of happiness, that he scarcely remembered the circumstance which had threatened the holiest feelings of his heart, except from the sweet feeling of higher enjoyment which lies in the full possession of that which you feared to lose.
The door opened quickly and a servant entered with a disturbed and frightened face.
"My lord baron," he said with some hesitation, "I must--"
The young officer turned his head and looked at him inquiringly; but he could not finish his sentence, for a slender female form in a light morning dress hastily advanced through the half-open door, and with a quick and decided movement pushed the servant aside. Her face was concealed by a thick veil hanging from her small round hat.
Herr von Stielow rose and walked towards his visitor with an expression of great surprise, whilst he dismissed the servant by a sign, and he, by shrugging his shoulders endeavoured to signify that he had not been able to announce this visitor to his master in the usual way.
Scarcely had the door closed than the lady threw back her veil. Herr von Stielow beheld the beautiful features of Madame Balzer. She was pale, but her cheeks were tinged with a light rosy hue, her large eyes glowed with deep passionate fire, upon her slightly parted lips lay an expression of bashful shame, mingled with a look of firm and energetic decision. She was wonderfully beautiful, more charming in this plain, almost grisette-like toilette, than in the rich and recherché elegance which usually surrounded her.
The young man looked at the well-known face before him with blank amazement, almost with fear; for it was the last thing he expected to see.
"Antonia!" he exclaimed in a low voice.
"Your lips, then, have not forgotten that name," she said, fixing her sorrowful eyes upon him; "I feared that all, all remembrance, had vanished from your heart, even the name of her whom once you loved, and whom you now despise,--condemn unheard."
Stielow was so amazed, so discomposed by this visit, that he still stood opposite to her without uttering a word: a flash of anger, of defiance had shone in his eyes, but it had disappeared--how could anger be maintained against this gentle humility, this look so full of entreaty and of sorrow? He gazed at her vacantly, contradictory feelings struggling in his breast.
"You have condemned me," she continued in that soft melting voice, only bestowed upon a few women, and which touches the heart of the listener like a caress, "you have turned from me without asking a word of explanation, and yet you loved me once, and yet," she whispered hesitatingly, as she cast down her eyes, and a rosy blush passed over her face, "yet, you must have known that I loved you!"
Herr von Stielow still found not a word to oppose to these looks, this language; he almost felt he was really hard and cruel, and it needed the full recollection of the evening before, to enable him to maintain calm composure before this woman.
Antonia came one step nearer, and fixed her eyes upon him, with a melancholy expression of unutterable tenderness. "My love," she said in her soft voice, "was as pure, as confiding as a young maiden's, yet fiery and glowing as the wine of the south, and it filled my whole soul, it had enchained my pride. I lay at your feet, as a slave at the feet of her lord!"
Tears glittered in her lovely eyes.
"I beg you--" said von Stielow, feeling quite distracted. "Why these declarations about the past, now? Why this painful scene?"
"You are right," she replied, and a proud flash shone in her eyes without dispersing the melancholy that veiled them, "you are right. I ought not to touch upon that past, but there is a nearer past of which I must speak, which leads me hither."
"But--" said von Stielow.
Without heeding him she continued:
"Before you, I had no longer pride, no longer a will, it is true; but you coldly and cruelly forsook me"--she placed her hand upon her heart, and pressed her lips together. "You humiliated me, and my pride again arose. I wished to hate you, to forget you," she added in a hoarse voice: "but all the nobler feelings of my heart rebelled against it. I could not do it," she said in trembling tones; "and my pride said, 'Though he no longer loves, he shall not despise!'"
Herr von Stielow's face had grown calm. He looked at her coldly, a scarcely perceptible smile upon his lips.
"You had a right," she added, "it is true, to think me false, and to believe yourself the toy of a coquettish whim, perhaps even worse; you shall believe it no more, the memory of me shall not be mingled with contempt."
"Let us leave the past," said he; "I assure you--"
"No," she cried vehemently, "you shall hear me,--if the past gives me no other right, it gives me this, to demand a hearing!"
He was silent.
"You know," she proceeded, "what my life was; with a heart full of love, with a spirit that craved and strove for higher things, I was in early life fettered to the husband with whom you are acquainted. He himself encouraged a crowd of young men around me. Count Rivero came near me, I found in him the richest genius,--the satisfying of all my wishes, I believed I loved him," she added, casting down her eyes, "at least he brought light and interest to my life. Is that a crime?"
Without waiting for an answer she went on passionately:--
"Then I learned to know you, I discovered my mistake, my heart told me that before only my mind had been satisfied. I now felt how this new feeling had taken deep root in my inmost life. Let me be silent about that time," she said with quivering lips, "recollections that I cannot stifle would unnerve me. I struggled long and severely," she continued in a calm voice, as if subduing her emotion by a mighty effort; "ought I to have spoken to you of the past? I did not dare, my love made me cowardly; I feared to lose you. I feared to see a cloud upon the brow I loved. I was silent; I was silent because I feared. Rivero was away. I ought to have broken with him. Oh!" she cried in a voice of pain, whilst her whole form trembled, "you know the humiliating position in which I was placed; the man whose name I bear, my husband, was under heavy obligations to him; under the circumstances I could not venture suddenly and quickly to cease our correspondence. I awaited his return. I knew him to be noble and generous. I wished to tell him all, to explain,--then there was that unhappy meeting, the intercourse which I wished quietly and prudently to drop, was torn asunder--oh! what I have suffered!"
Herr von Stielow was moved, and looked at her with compassion.
"If I have erred," she proceeded, "I am still not so guilty as I seem, my heart has never sinned against the truth of my love. I swear to you, since the day I said, 'I love you'"--she pronounced the words with a strange melting charm--"every throb of my heart, every feeling of my soul has been yours; my first conversation with the count was an explanation with regard to you."
She stepped nearer to him, she lifted her folded hands and gazed up at him with a look of inexpressible love, and said:
"I have not betrayed my love. I have not forgotten it. I cannot forget it. I have come because I must make this explanation, because I cannot bear"--and here her voice seemed choked with tears--"that you should despise me, that you should quite forget me," she added lower still, "I cannot believe, that all, all has vanished from your heart. I cannot part from you without telling you that if ever your heart should feel lonely you have a friend who never, never can deny her first love."
She looked unspeakably lovely as she stood there before him, so humble, so gentle, her lips slightly parted, her eyes, though suffused with tears, still glowing with a tender fire, her figure languidly bent forward.
The young man looked at her with great compassion, the sound of her voice, the magnetic brightness of her eyes, had aroused within him memories of the past. But the mild gentle expression vanished from his face, his eyes flashed and a scornful smile appeared on his lips.
"Let us leave the past," he said coldly and politely. "I have not reproached you, and I will not reproach you, I wish you----"
She looked at him sorrowfully.
"Then my words have been in vain," she said, sadly, "you do not believe me----"
An angry flash passed over his face.
"I believe you," he said, "and I do not want your words, for thank God! I know everything. I think this conversation upon the earlier past will come to an end when I give you a proof that I am acquainted with your last proceeding."
And with a quick angry movement he turned to a casket standing upon a console table before a mirror, opened it and held towards her the letter she had sent by her husband to the Countess Frankenstein.
"You see," he said, "I know the way in which you use the souvenirs of the past against the present."
She shrank back, as if struck by lightning. The paleness of death overspread her face--her features were convulsed, her eyes fixed immovably upon the paper.
"I think this will bring our conversation to an end," he said, with a bitter smile.
A deep crimson flush spread over her face, her limbs trembled, burning passion shone in her eyes.
"No," she cried in a wild voice, "no, it is not at an end--it shall not be at an end!"
Herr von Stielow slightly shrugged his shoulders.
"It shall not be at an end," she cried in trembling excitement, "because I love you, because I cannot leave you, because you cannot be happy with that woman, to whom you will give your name, but whose cold heart will never feel for you the fiery glow that streams through mine."
"Madam, you go too far," said Stielow, and an expression of repugnance and contempt appeared upon his face.
"You deceive yourself," she said, whilst her lips burned a rich carmine and her feverish eyes lighted up her pale face. "I know how warmly your heart has beaten for me, it cannot be happy in a conventional love, in lukewarm kisses meted out by custom."
He half turned from her.
"You go too far," he said again.
"Hear me, my own, my love," and she sank down at his feet stretching out her arms towards him; "hear me, and do not despise me, I cannot live without you. Give your hand," she cried in a voice full of passion, "to that woman, give her your name, but leave me your heart: the time will come when you will long for happiness, then come back to me, to dream, to love; I ask for nothing,--nothing, I will wait humbly, I will live upon the remembrance of the quiet happiness of the past during the long days when I do not see you,--do all that you will,--only love me."
She seized his hand and pressed it to her glowing lips, then her head fell back a little, her half-closed eyes looked at him imploringly, the warm breath from her mouth seemed to surround him with an enchanted atmosphere of love and passion.
A slight shudder passed through him; he closed his eyes for a moment.
Then he looked at her with calm friendship, and holding her hand firmly he gently raised her.
"Antonia," he said quietly, "I should be unworthy to wear a sword if I gave you any answer but this; let everything be forgotten and forgiven that belongs to the past, no other remembrance will abide with me but that of friendship, and if you need a friend, you will find one in me."
And he let go her hand after pressing it gently.
Was it the tone of his voice, was it the quiet pressure of his hand, that convinced her quick womanly perceptions that she had lost his love for ever? She stood motionless, the passionate tears left her eyes, a flash of hatred gleamed in her look, but she hastily concealed it beneath her downcast eyelids.
With a quiet movement she drew down her veil, and said in a voice that retained no traces of its former emotion:
"Farewell; may you be happy!"
She turned to the door.
Stielow accompanied her silently and gravely through the ante-room to the outer door of his apartments, which a servant hurried forwards to open.
She went out with hasty footsteps.
The young man returned and sank into an arm-chair as if exhausted.
"Was it real, or was it acting?" he whispered thoughtfully.
"No matter," he cried after a short consideration, "it does not become me to judge her--may she find happiness!"
And quickly springing up he said, whilst his face cleared up:
"This was the last cloud that threatened to veil my star."
He rang for his servant, made a hasty toilette, and drove in his cab to the house of the Countess Frankenstein.
In the afternoon the most varied life filled the wide alleys of the Prater. Upon the broad turf beneath the trees of this enormous park some of the cavalry regiments recalled to Vienna were still encamped, and the different scenes of camp life were picturesquely displayed. There stood the horses picketed, as if on actual service, neighing and whinnying with impatience, here lay a circle of soldiers around a smouldering fire, on which, in the field kettle, their meal was cooking; booths were erected in which food and drink, the Vienna sausage, and camp beer, were offered for sale; and the Viennese streamed in and out in countless numbers. Now that the real war was over with its fears and anguish, they liked to gaze here on the last picture of it, which only offered to the eye its romantic charm, and not its dreadful earnest. But the groups of lookers-on were the thickest around an open space girt in by tall trees, where the brown sons of Hungary were displaying their fantastic national dance--the Czardas. A man played, upon an old violin, one of those peculiar melodies, half wailing, half wild dithyrambic movements, which even when thus executed sounds upon the ear with a strange mysterious charm; the others pursued a peculiar dance, with its strange pantomimic evolutions, sometimes jingling their spurs together, sometimes stamping on the ground with their feet, sometimes twisting the body into strange but always graceful attitudes.
Amongst one of these groups stood old Grois, the comic actor Knaak, and the ever-merry Josephine Gallmeyer.
"Pepi's" beautiful eyes sparkling with fun and mirth attentively followed all the movements of the Czardas. She slightly nodded her head, and beat time with her hand, to the sharply accentuated music.
"Look, old Grois," she then said, turning to her companion, who watched the moving picture with sad and doleful eyes, "those are capital fellows; I should like to choose a sweetheart from amongst them, they please me better than all ourfadecavaliers put together."
"Yes," said the old actor gloomily, "there they dance, and when it came to fighting for Austria they let them stay behind, eighty regiments of our glorious cavalry have never been in action; it almost breaks one's heart to think of it all."
"Fie! old blood-thirsty tiger," cried the Gallmeyer; "let us be glad they are still left to dance, and that they have not been under those cursed needle-guns--there would not have been many of them left!"
"Bah! needle-guns!" cried old Grois. "Now it is to be the needle-guns that have done everything; at first everyone said it was the generals' fault, and now the generals say it was the needle-guns. I hold to it they were right at first, and that if the Prussians had had our generals, their needle-guns would not have helped them much."
"Happy is he who forgets what cannot be mended," cried Fräulein Gallmeyer; "nothing can be done against the Prussians, they surpass the gods!"
"Why this sudden admiration for the Prussians?" asked Knaak.
"Well, you know," said the Gallmeyer, "it is true they do surpass the gods, for one of our poets who has written such lovely rôles for my friend the Wolter says," and here she placed herself in a comically pathetic attitude, and imitating exactly the voice and manner of the great actress of the Burg Theatre, repeated: "'Against folly even the gods strive in vain!' Well, the Prussians have not striven against folly in vain!" she cried, laughing.
"Pepi," said old Grois in a grave voice, "you can say what you please about me, and the rest of the world; but if you make the misfortunes of my dear Austria the subject of your wit, we shall quarrel!"
"That would be frightful!" cried the Gallmeyer, "for I should then in the end be forced"--and she looked at him with a roguish smile.
"Well, what?" he asked, already pacified.
"To strive in vain with old Grois," she cried, and let just the tip of her tongue appear between her fresh lips, whilst she twirled round on the point of her toe.
"And did I speak sensibly to such a creature?" cried the old actor, half displeased, half laughing.
The Czardas was at an end, and the different groups moved on.
"See," said Knaak, "there is our friend Stielow and his beautiful fiancée."
And he pointed out an elegant open carriage which drove slowly along the broad alley. Countess Frankenstein and her daughter sat facing the horses, Lieutenant von Stielow in his rich Uhlan uniform opposite to them. His face beamed with happiness as he talked to the young countess, and pointed out to her the different encampments in the park.
"A handsome pair," said old Grois benevolently, as he looked at the two smiling young creatures.
"Oh! that it may remain green for ever! the lovely period of youthful love!" exclaimed the Gallmeyer. "That is what my friend Wolter would say," she added laughingly; "but I am very angry with him, for I made him a declaration of love, and he despised me; but I shall console myself!"
They passed on.
The countess's carriage, when it had left the thick throng of pedestrians behind it, drove rapidly towards the town.
At that time long trains, filled with sick and wounded, arrived daily at the northern station; they were brought from the bandaging sheds and field hospitals, to Vienna and other places more in the interior, that they might receive more regular nursing.
The rooms belonging to the station were fitted up for the reception of the wounded; many arrived in so weak a condition that they could not be moved immediately, nearly all required to rest for a time, and the further transport had to be arranged.
It was the regular custom of the ladies of Vienna in every grade, from the highest aristocracy to the simple shopkeeper's wife, to go to the railway station when such a train arrived, to refresh the wounded with cooling drinks and light nourishment, to have linen and lint ready, and to assist the surgeons as far as they could in any needful operation, or fresh bandaging. Here was richly shown that beautiful, truly patriotic spirit of self-denial, so abundant in the Austrian people, that spirit which the imperial government so frequently misunderstood, so frequently repressed; but which it scarcely ever directed aright in its lively desire to benefit the whole nation.
"Some wounded soldiers are coming in," said the young Countess Frankenstein to her mother, as the carriage arrived at the end of the Prater, and drew near the northern railway station; "shall we not go? I have brought some bandages, some raspberry vinegar, and some wine. I want," she said, turning to her lover with a charming smile, "to help all the poor wounded soldiers that I can, to show my gratitude to God for helping me so graciously in my own trouble and sorrow."
Stielow affectionately pressed her hand and looked with admiration at her lovely, blushing face.
"I thank you for recollecting it," said the countess; "we can never do enough for those who fight and suffer for their country, and we ought to set an example to the classes beneath us."
"I must beg you to excuse me," said von Stielow, looking at his watch, "I must wait on General Gablenz and hear if he has any commands for me."
Clara looked disappointed.
"But in the evening you will be free?" she asked.
"I certainly hope so," said the young man, "for there is now little for the aides-de-camp to do."
The carriage had reached the railway station. At a sign from the lieutenant it drew up at the entrance.
"We shall meet again then," said Countess Frankenstein to Herr von Stielow, who took leave of the ladies, and Clara's looks said plainer than words: "We shall soon meet again."
The footman sprang from the box, opened the carriage-door, took a basket from the boot, and followed the ladies into the interior of the station.
It presented a touching, grave, and melancholy picture; but at the same time much that was pleasing and affecting.
Field-beds and litters stood close together in long rows, on which lay wounded, sick, and dying soldiers belonging to every branch of the service, Prussian as well as Austrian. Some bore their sufferings in mute resignation, others sighed and groaned from the horrible tortures that they endured.
The surgeons walked amongst them, examining into the condition of the new arrivals, giving orders where they were to be taken, according to the nature of their wounds, and the hopes they entertained of their recovery. The bandages were renewed before further transport, medicine and refreshment were administered, and operations immediately needful were performed in cabinets erected for the purpose and prepared beforehand. All this was sad and distressing; those who had seen the proud regiments set out, the eyes of the soldiers flashing at the blast of the trumpet, and who now saw the broken suffering forms brought back from the battle-field, where the sacrifice of their blood had not obtained victory for the banners of their country, might indeed sigh sorrowfully, as they thought that the boasted civilization of the human race, with all its progress, had not as yet banished cruel and murderous war from the face of the earth; war, that scourge of mankind, as cruel now as in the grey ages of antiquity, only with this difference, that the inventive powers of man have discovered more certain and annihilating weapons.
Beside the surgeons who examined the wounds with the cold looks of science, were seen the sisters of mercy, those unwearied priestesses of Christian love: calmly and without a sound they glided between the beds, sometimes with gentle hand assisting in the placing of a bandage, sometimes with a kind consoling word putting to the pale dry lips some cooling drink, or strengthening medicine.
And everywhere amongst the busy groups were seen the beautiful and graceful ladies of Vienna, especially the ladies of the higher aristocracy, offering the sick refreshments, handing the surgeons linen bandages, and calling up a smile upon some sad suffering face.
They did not assist much, it is true, these self-constituted Samaritans, whom the love of their country moved to aid in the care of her wounded soldiers, but the sight of them did endless good to the sick and suffering; they felt that in their tenderness there was an acknowledgment of their pain and sacrifices; many of the eyes, misled by fever, believed they saw in the forms around them a sister or a sweetheart, and the vacant weary looks lighted up, the pale quivering lip gently smiled at the kind hands which thus performed the noblest work of woman--alleviating pain and soothing suffering.
So they brought pleasure and consolation to the poor wounded men, these willing nurses; though the surgeons sometimes said they were in the way; but surgeons reckon without that muscle of the heart which drives the blood streaming through the veins, not to be found by the scalpel in an anatomical examination of the human heart, with all its abysses of grief, and its tender fragrant flowers of joy; they know not its power and yet it often puts their art to shame.
The Countess Frankenstein and her daughter were soon surrounded by several ladies of the first society, and with them they began their round amongst the wounded.
Amongst the numerous women who were assembled here, and who it might almost be said followed the fashion of nursing the sick, if indeed such a word ought to be applied to so good and blessed an employment, which was generally engaged in from the noblest motives, was the beautiful Madame Balzer.
Dressed in the plainest dark grey toilette, a small basket containing bandages and nourishment upon her arm, she had followed one of the surgeons and assisted him with such skill that he had thanked her, surprised that it was apparently a lady of distinction and not a sister of mercy who had aided him so efficiently. She looked wonderfully beautiful in her simple dress, with her pale perfect features; from the unusual gracefulness of her movements, and the gentle self-possession with which she approached the beds of the sufferers, a stranger would have thought that amongst all these distinguished ladies of Vienna she was the most distinguished. These ladies, however, did not know her; several of them enquired who that lovely graceful person was, but no one could reply, for in Vienna there is not that public life which in Paris gives to the ladies of the great world the opportunity of knowing perfectly well by sight, their imitators or their models in doubtful society. The name of Madame Balzer was known to many of these ladies, she was frequently the subject of conversation in thesalonsof Vienna; but only a few of them had seen her, for she went out of doors but little and always rigorously observedles convenances.
She passed along by the beds of the wounded soldiers administering comfort and refreshment; at last she reached the end of a long row, and saw a litter standing at some little distance, on which a soldier lay stretched.
She went up to him and bent slowly over him, his expressionless eyes startled her, the blue corpse-like colour was spread over his pale thin face, a large gaping wound was seen on his bare breast. The wounded man had died during the journey, he must have expired quite an hour before. Involuntarily she laid her hand upon his brow, it was cold as ice.
She was gazing horrified upon this dreadful sight, when animated voices met her ear.
She looked up, and saw at a little distance a group of several ladies standing near the litter of a soldier in the Uhlan uniform; the bandage round his head had slipped and with a feeble hand he was endeavouring to replace it.
Amongst these ladies stood the lovely and graceful young countess Frankenstein. The deepest compassion shone in her eyes, but it did not banish the brilliant happiness that she felt. With a smile she said:
"This uniform must always be first with me, I almost belong to it myself!" and with a light elastic step she went up to the litter, and drawing off her gloves, and throwing back her lace sleeves, she began with her beautiful white hands to arrange the bandage for the wounded man. Over her arms hung a long strip of fine white linen, which she used to retain the bandage in its place until the surgeon should arrive.
Antonia Balzer started when she heard this voice; from her dark corner she watched the charming and beautiful young girl as she stood in the strong light with her smiling lips and brilliant eyes.
A deadly paleness spread over her face, her complexion grew as ghastly as that of the poor man who lay before her; a burning flash of which no human eyes seemed capable darted from her, wild hatred distorted her lovely features.
She gazed for one moment on the charming figure near her, then her face assumed a gloomy, dreadful expression; an indescribable smile appeared on her lips.
"Here is death, there is life!" she whispered hoarsely, and bent down over the corpse until her face was hidden, and could be recognized by no one.
She took a small pair of scissors with golden handles from her basket, and stooping over the dead man she plunged the points of the scissors deep into the wound upon his breast, then she pressed her fine cambric handkerchief upon it, and saturated it with the bloody fluid that exuded.
She sprang up hastily; her face expressed anxious excitement.
She hastened to the knot of ladies surrounding Clara Frankenstein, who was still occupied in holding the strip of linen which she had placed around the forehead of the wounded man.
"For heaven's sake!" cried Madame Balzer, "give me a strip of linen, a drop of eau de cologne! I have exhausted everything; a poor wounded man is dying!"
And hastily approaching Clara she seized her outstretched arm with both hands, as if imploring her for a piece of the linen which hung over it.
Clara uttered a cry and hastily drew back her hand. A drop of blood appeared just above her wrist and trickled slowly down her white arm.
"Oh, how clumsy of me!" cried Madame Balzer. "I have hurt you with my scissors; I beg a thousand pardons!"
And she quickly pressed the handkerchief she had applied to the wound upon the wrist of the young countess.
"Pray do not mind about it," said Clara kindly; "do not let us lose our time over this little scratch when there are so many serious wounds to think of."
And she slowly withdrew her arm, which Madame Balzer was still rubbing with her handkerchief as if to remove the blood.
Clara held out the strip of linen which she had in her hand and said:
"Pray take some."
Madame Balzer quickly cut a piece off with her scissors, returned graceful thanks, and after again apologizing for her awkwardness, returned to the corpse.
Several ladies who had witnessed the little scene hastened to the litter.
"The man is dead!" they cried, "nothing can be done here!"
Madame Balzer gazed sorrowfully on the corpse.
"Yes, he is dead!" she said, "we were too late!"
And folding her hands she bowed her head and moved her lips in whispered prayer. Deep devotion appeared on her features. The ladies around followed her example, and uttered a short prayer for the soul of the deceased, whose return was perhaps ardently desired in some distant home.
Then they all went on to other beds.
One of the few gentlemen dispersed amongst the numerous and compassionate nurses, assisting and advising, was Count Rivero.
He was not far off when Madame Balzer hurried to Clara to beg for some linen.
His large dark eyes rested thoughtfully on the two beautiful women during their short conversation; then he turned slowly away and walked in a contrary direction.
A few hours later the station was empty; the ladies had all returned either to their luxurious palaces or quiet family circles; the poor wounded soldiers had been conveyed to hospitals, to struggle to convalescence, after long days of suffering, or to die.
The morning sun shone brightly into Lieutenant von Stielow's room. But not as yesterday did he lie stretched upon his couch in happy dreams; he paced to and fro, with quick and restless footsteps, his pale face looked painfully anxious, and it was evident he had passed a sleepless night.
He had spent the evening before with Clara, in the sweet and charming converse of two loving hearts, who say so much, yet never can say enough; an hour had flown rapidly, then she had complained of violent pain from the small wound in her arm; they had applied cooling lotions, but the pain had increased, and the arm had swelled considerably. They sent for their usual medical attendant, and he had tried various remedies; but the poor girl said that the pain became still more violent; the wound was greatly inflamed and the swelling grew larger. Stielow remained at the Countess Frankenstein's house until the small hours of the morning; at last the doctor, after hearing how the injury had been received, tried a different ointment, and gave the young countess a sleeping draught.
Countess Frankenstein had insisted upon Herr von Stielow's returning home and resting a little, and she promised him early in the morning to call in the celebrated Oppolzer. No one thought there was any real danger; but the young man had passed the night in great anxiety, possessed by forebodings he could not overcome.
In the morning he sent his servant to make inquiries, and heard in reply that the countess had slept, and that Oppolzer was expected every moment. He dressed, and prepared to hasten to the countess's house.
He had on his uniform, and was just buckling his sword, when his servant announced Count Rivero.
Stielow made an impatient movement; but at the same time he gave his servant a sign to admit the visitor.
The count entered the room, looking grave, though fresh and elegant.
With a graceful bow he held out his hand to the young baron and said in his resonant voice, whilst his eyes beamed with an expression of warm friendship:
"I heard that you were here with Field-Marshal Gablenz, and I hastened to visit you before you perhaps left us again, to express my joy that you have so happily escaped the dangers of war."
"You are very kind, count," replied von Stielow in a slightly constrained tone; "I'm heartily glad to see you again."
The count seemed to expect an invitation to sit down.
Herr von Stielow looked on the ground with some embarrassment.
Then he raised his candid eyes and said:
"Count, you will forgive me if I speak quite openly to you. I beg you urgently, to repeat the honour of your visit at some other time, that I may have the happiness of increasing our acquaintance, which I hope," he added politely, "will become much more intimate; at this moment I must own I am pressingly engaged, and in great anxiety."
"Anxiety?" asked the count, "it is not idle curiosity that urges me to inquire the cause."
"Oh! I hope it is nothing very serious," said von Stielow, "the young Countess Frankenstein--you know I am engaged?"
"I have heard so," replied the count, "and I wished to offer you my hearty congratulations."
Herr von Stielow bowed slightly, and said:
"She is unwell; an extraordinary accident has happened to her, which makes me excessively uneasy; and I was just about to hasten to hear how she was going on, and what Oppolzer, who was to meet her regular attendant this morning, had said."
"Oppolzer consulted?" cried the count with a look of alarm; "my God! is the countess then seriously ill?"
"We can scarcely think so," said von Stielow, "and yet the symptoms are very distressing; a slight wound on her wrist has become rapidly bad, and has caused her to feel so extremely ill."
"A wound!" cried the count: his face grew very grave and expressed the greatest attention.
"She was visiting the wounded soldiers at the northern railway station," said the young officer, "and another lady slightly hurt her wrist with a small pair of scissors in cutting off a piece of linen; it could scarcely be called a wound; but in the course of the evening the arm swelled and grew stiff, and became violently painful. Fever came on, and the doctor fears that there must have been some drug upon the scissors, what, he cannot ascertain. Under these circumstances," he said, pressing the count's hand, "you will forgive me, if I beg you to excuse me."
The count had listened very gravely, his face had turned pale, and his large dark eyes looked thoughtfully at the young man's excited face.
"My dear baron," he said slowly, "honestly from my heart I feel the liveliest interest in you; perhaps I can be useful to you. In former years I studied medicine deeply, especially the knowledge of poisons and their antidotes; they once," he added with a slight sigh, "played so important and frightful a part in my country, that the subject interested me deeply. If by an unhappy accident there was anything pernicious or dangerous on the scissors, I may be of some assistance. Will you allow me to see the young countess?"
And in a deep voice that seemed to command conviction, he added,
"Believe me, I would not propose my help if I did not believe that if serious danger has arisen, and help is possible, my remedy is certain."
Herr von Stielow had at first listened to the count's proposal in silent surprise, then a look of thankfulness beamed from his eyes, and stretching out his hand he cried hastily,--
"Come!"
"We must drive to my house to obtain the necessary apparatus," said the count; "if it is really a case of poisoning, recovery may depend upon moments."
Instead of replying, the young man seized the count's arm and drew him to the door.
They jumped into a cab that stood ready, driven by one of the best and quickest drivers in Vienna, and in a few minutes they had reached the count's rooms, which were only at a little distance. He got out, and soon returned with a small black casket. They then drove rapidly to Countess Frankenstein's and entered the reception room.
In the ante-room a servant had received them with a sorrowful look, and had replied almost weeping to Herr von Stielow's hasty question,
"Ah! my God! Herr Baron, it is terrible, the poor countess is dreadfully bad, they have sent for the father-confessor, and also for you, sir:" and he then hastened away to let the countess know of Stielow's arrival.
He walked up and down the room with large strides, grief and despair upon his face.
The count stood calm and motionless, his hand supported on the back of a chair.
After a few moments Countess Frankenstein appeared, she was pale and exhausted, her eyes wearied with watching and red with weeping.
She glanced with surprise at the count, whom she had seen once or twice in society, and whose presence at that moment was inexplicable to her.
Stielow hastened up to her, seized her hand impatiently, and exclaimed in a trembling voice,
"For God's sake! how is she? How is Clara?"
"Compose yourself, my dear Stielow," said the countess calmly, though with a slight sob in her voice, "the hand of the Lord has smitten us heavily; if He does not work a miracle, we must lose her!"
And she broke down and wept quietly.
"But my God! how can it be? what did the doctor say?" cried the young man, with a look of bewildered horror. "What is this wound?"
"Clara must have touched some dead soldier, the poison from some deadly wound has got into her blood, there is scarcely a hope of saving her," she said in a low voice.
"I must go to her, I must see her!" cried von Stielow wildly.
"Her confessor is with her," said the countess, "telling her of comfort and resignation; let her first be reconciled to God!"
And raising her head, she regained her composure with a violent effort, and cast an inquiring look at the count, who stood by in silence. His eyes had flashed with anger when the countess had explained the medical opinion of the nature of Clara's illness, but he had then raised them in joyful thankfulness to heaven.
As the looks of the countess rested upon him he came forward with the self-possession of a man of the world, and after bowing slightly he said:--
"You will recollect me, countess, though I have only had the honour of meeting you once or twice. I think Herr von Stielow will permit me to call myself his friend; he told me of the alarming illness that has attacked the young countess, and I offered to use the medical knowledge I acquired in earlier years on her behalf, before I knew the nature of her injury. I have now heard the dreadful danger she is in, and if you can trust me so far, I beg your permission to apply a remedy which I promise shall, God willing, be successful."
The countess listened in the greatest surprise.
"You, count, a physician?" she enquired.
"A physician from inclination," he replied, "but not a worse one than many who make it their profession."
The countess looked at him and hesitated.
"I implore you, for God's sake, let the count make the attempt," cried von Stielow, "we must accept any help,--my God, my God, I cannot lose her!"
"Count," said the Countess Frankenstein, "I thank you from my heart for your sympathy and your offer. Forgive me if I consider it," she added with hesitation, "the life of my child--"
"Consideration and hesitation may be fatal," said the count quietly.
The countess looked down thoughtfully, von Stielow's eyes hung on her face with an expression of deadly anguish.
The door leading to the inner apartments opened and Father Ignatius, the confessor to the countess and her daughter, entered.
He wore the black dress of a priest, his manner was simple, graceful, and dignified, his pale and regular features, surrounded by short black hair, expressed spiritual repose, firmness, and great self-knowledge, his dark eyes looked full of intelligence beneath the strongly marked eyebrows.
"The countess is resigned to God's will, and desirous of receiving the holy sacrament, that she may be prepared, should it please God not to hear our prayers for her recovery," he said slowly in a low and impressive voice.
"Oh! my God! my God!" cried von Stielow, in despair, "I conjure you, countess, seize on the means that heaven has sent you!"
"Count Rivero," said Countess Frankenstein, indicating the count to her confessor, "offers to save my daughter by means of a remedy which his study of medicine has caused him to discover; you will understand--I beg your forgiveness, count--that I must act cautiously where the life of my child is at stake. I expect the doctor every moment, Oppolzer too will come again,--he has indeed little hope."
Father Ignatius cast a quick searching glance at the count, who replied to it with a look of calm dignity, almost of proud superiority.
"It is certainly a grave and difficult question," said the father hesitatingly.
"Every moment makes recovery more doubtful," cried the count with some vehemence. "I believe," he then continued calmly, "that the father will be of my opinion, that in this unusual and extreme case we must try everything, and place confidence in most unusual means."
As he spoke he looked firmly at the confessor, and raising his hand slightly he made the sign of the cross in a peculiar way, over his brow and his breast.
Amazed, almost alarmed, the father gazed at him, and casting down his eyes before the count's large, brilliant orbs, he said:
"It would be sinning against Providence if we did not thankfully seize on the means which God has so visibly sent us in our urgent need. Your conscience will reproach you, countess, if you do not accept the help now offered."
Countess Frankenstein looked at the priest with some surprise.
"Come then," she said, turning to Count Rivero, after a moment's silence.
And they all went to the apartments of the young countess. The flowers still bloomed in her room, the crucifix stood in the niche, and at its feet lay the case which held the withered rose.
The portière that divided this room from her bedroom was drawn back. It was a spacious apartment hung entirely with grey silk even to the curtains of the bed, upon which lay the countess in a white négligé, supported by pillows. The sleeve of her right arm was thrown back, and the dreadfully inflamed arm was covered with a wet compress, which a maid who sat near the bed moistened constantly with some strongly smelling fluid from a medicine bottle.
Clara's face was much flushed, her eyes had the brilliance of fever, but they looked calmly resigned, as her friends entered with their sorrowful faces.
As soon as he saw the poor suffering girl, von Stielow rushed past the others, and falling on his knees beside the bed and folding his hands, cried in a stifled voice, "Clara, my Clara!"
"My own friend," she said gently, and stretched out her soft left hand towards him, "how beautiful life is, how sad to think of the death that is so near me,--God will be gracious, He will not part us!"
Stielow bent his head down upon her hand, and touched it lightly with his lips. He could not say a word. Only a deep sob broke from him.
Count Rivero approached the bed with a quick step and a commanding movement.
"Hope! countess," he said in a firm, clear voice, "God will bless my hand! And now, baron, give up your place to me, moments are precious!" He slightly touched the shoulder of the young man as he knelt.
He rose hastily and stepped aside.
The count removed the compress, and calmly examined the wound. It was much swollen, of a bluish colour, and long streaks of inflammation extended to the shoulder.
All eyes rested on the count's face with the most earnest anxiety; he looked at the wound attentively and lightly followed the swelling with his finger. Clara gazed with surprise mingled with hopeful confidence, at this man who was quite unknown to her, but who stood so quietly beside her and who had so confidently said to her, "hope!"
The count concluded his examination.
"It is quite true," he said; "corrupted matter has got into the wound, the poison has spread greatly, it is almost too late!"
He opened the black casket he had brought with him, and which he had placed beside him on the table.
It contained a small surgical apparatus, and several little cut glass bottles.
The count took a knife with a golden handle and a highly-polished shining blade.
"I beg your pardon, countess," he said in the tone of a man of the world, "I must hurt you, it is necessary."
The young countess smiled.
The count took firm hold of the suffering arm, and quick as lightning cut two deep gashes crossing each other into the wound.
Thick blood mixed with matter flowed from it.
"A handkerchief!" cried the count.
They gave him a cambric handkerchief; he quickly removed the blood, seized a glass bottle, opened the wound widely and poured into it a portion of the contents.
Clara's face grew deadly pale; she closed her eyes, her lips quivered convulsively.
"Does it hurt?" asked the count.
"Horribly!" replied the young girl in a voice that was scarcely audible.
The count took from the casket a small syringe with a sharp steel point, filled it with fluid from the bottle, and injected the contents into the flesh of the arm, following the direction of the swelling.
Clara's face showed even greater agony, the Countess Frankenstein watched the count's manipulations with the deepest anxiety, Stielow wrung his hands in silent grief, and Father Ignatius moved his lips in prayer.
The count took another bottle, half filled a glass with pure water, and slowly and carefully counted the drops as he let them fall from the fluid in the phial.
The water grew blood red, a strong, peculiar odour spread through the room.
The count touched the patient's brow lightly with his finger.
She opened her eyes; her countenance still expressed burning pain.
"Drink this!" said the count in a gentle but commanding tone. At the same time he carefully raised her head and placed the glass to her lips.
She took the contents. His eyes watched her attentively.
After a short time her face grew calmer, the contraction from the violence of the pain became less. She opened her eyes, and drew in a deep breath as if relieved.
"Ah! what good that does me!" she whispered.
An expression of satisfaction appeared on the count's face, then he said in a grave, solemn voice:
"I have done all that is possible to human art and knowledge, let us hope God's hand will shed a blessing upon my work. Pray to God, countess, fervently and with all your soul, that He may give my remedy strength to overcome the poison."
"Yes, yes," said the young girl ardently, and her eyes sought her lover; "come to me, my beloved friend!"
Herr von Stielow hastened to the bed and sank down before it with folded hands.
"I cannot put my hands together," she said in a low voice, looking at him affectionately, "so let me lay my hand in yours, and our united prayer shall ascend to heaven, that eternal mercy may permit us to remain together."
And she began whisperingly to pray, whilst the young officer's eyes were raised upwards with a look of the deepest devotion.
Suddenly a shudder passed through the form of the young countess, she withdrew her hand with a look of pain, and gazed with horror at her lover.
"Oh!" she cried in a trembling voice, "our prayers cannot really be united; what a dreadful thought, we do not pray to the same God!"
"Clara!" cried the young man, "what an idea! there is but one God in heaven, and He will hear us!"
"Ah!" she cried, without heeding his words, "there is but one God in heaven, but you do not walk in the paths that lead to Him, you are not in the bosom of the Church! Oh! I often thought of it amidst the pleasures and distractions of life; but now in this dire necessity, at the very gate of eternity, the thought fills me with horror! God cannot hear us, and," she added, with a bewildered look, "if I must die, if no help is possible, I must pass into eternity, knowing that his soul is lost! Horrible! oh, horrible!"
"Clara! Clara!" cried von Stielow in a tone of the greatest anguish, gazing in despair upon her painfully excited face, "God is the same for all those who worship Him with a pure heart, and no prayer can be more pure, more earnest than mine is now!"
Countess Frankenstein had sunk upon a chair, and covered her face with her hands, the father looked thoughtfully at the affecting scene, and the calm, perfect features of Count Rivero were lighted up as by a sudden inspiration.
Clara gazed sorrowfully at her lover, and gently shook her head.
"You do not worship at the altars of my Church," she said; "we are apart in the highest and holiest feelings that touch the human heart!"
"Clara, my own beloved!" cried the young man, raising his folded hands, "the altar on which your pure heart worships God must be the holiest, the best. Oh! that this altar were here, that I might throw myself before it, and pray to God for your recovery!" And raising his eyes with a look of inspiration, he took the hand of his betrothed and placed it on his own. A look of unutterable delight shone in the eyes of the young countess.
"The altar of God is here!" said Count Rivero, in a tone of deep emotion. He drew from beneath his waistcoat a golden cross, upon which a marvellously beautiful figure of the Saviour was chiselled in silver. "And his priest stands beside you!"
He unfastened the crucifix from a small golden chain to which it was attached.
"There can be no higher nor holier altar than this," said he, touching the crucifix adoringly with his lips; "the Holy Father in Rome has consecrated it with his apostolic blessing. Young man," he said, turning to Stielow, who was still kneeling, but whose eyes were raised with a look half of inquiry, half of enlightened inspiration, "young man, God has indeed blessed you, in so wonderfully opening to you the way of salvation. Hear the voice of God, speaking to you through the pure lips of her you love; seize on the mercy that beckons you to the bosom of the true Church, and acknowledge God in the confession which perhaps may shortly arise from the dying lips of your betrothed to the throne of the Eternal Father. You supplicate Heaven for a miracle, the recovery of her you love, open your soul to the miraculous stream of mercy that flows towards you."
"I will!" cried Stielow, his face glowing with ardent enthusiasm.
Clara closed her eyes and pressed her hand firmly upon her lover's.
"Thou hearest it, my God," she whispered; "I thank Thee! Thy ways of mercy are holy, and above all our thoughts and hopes."
"Father," said the count with dignity, "do your duty as a priest, and receive this soul, awakened to eternal salvation, into the bosom of the one true Church!"
Father Ignatius had stood by in great emotion, his eyes beaming with satisfaction; but he replied with hesitation:
"Is it possible? Here, without preparation?"
The count slightly raised his hand.
"I undertake the responsibility," he said proudly; "the forms can be complied with hereafter," and he handed the crucifix to the father, who kissed it with veneration.
"Lay your hand upon the image of the Redeemer, and repeat what the priest of God tells you to say," said the count.
Stielow turned to the father, who approached him, and did as the count had commanded.
Steadily and solemnly the priest repeated the words of the Catholic confession of faith; the young officer repeated them after him with the greatest devotion, and Clara whispered them in a low voice; the count stood upright, his brilliant eyes raised to heaven, a smile of inspired triumph on his lips.
Countess Frankenstein had sunk upon her knees, and laid her head upon her folded hands.
The confession of faith was ended; with a humble gesture the father returned the count the crucifix, he kissed it, and again attaching it to his chain, he concealed it in his breast.
"Now unite in prayer," he said with unspeakable sympathy; "no dissonance will part you, in pure harmony your petitions will rise to the throne of eternal love and compassion."
Stielow placed his folded hands upon the bed; Clara pressed her left hand upon them, and the lips of both these young and loving creatures moved in earnest prayer to God, imploring Him to permit them to walk along the path of life together.
Thus they prayed for a long time earnestly and unitedly; their friends looked at this affecting picture without speaking. Deep silence prevailed in the room.
At last Stielow rose from his knees after lightly touching the hand of the young countess with his lips. Countess Frankenstein approached him and kissed him upon the brow. "God's blessing be upon you, my son," she said affectionately. The young man looked around him with dreamy, glistening eyes; he felt as if descending from a strange world which was suddenly closed upon him when he looked at the objects around him, and as if he needed to recover his composure after the excitement which had shaken his inmost soul.
The count approached the bed, and examined the injured arm.
The wound was very red, and surrounded by a wreath of blisters.
Similar blisters appeared all up the arm.
"The remedy is taking effect," he said; "the poison is beginning to work out, I have a certain hope of recovery."
Herr von Stielow threw himself upon the count's breast.
"My friend for ever!" he cried, and tears flowed from his eyes.
"How shall I thank you, count?" cried Countess Frankenstein, with great emotion.
"Thank God, countess," he replied. "But," he added in the easy tone of general conversation, "I reckon upon your discretion, you must not betray me to the doctors."
He gave instructions about the further treatment of the wound, and a remedy to be used in his absence, he again administered a medicine, and left the house promising to return in a few hours.
With rapid footsteps he hastened to Madame Balzer's house; his face assumed a grave and severe expression as he ascended the steps leading to the young lady's apartments.
In the salon he found the Abbé Rosti awaiting him. The young priest sat opposite thechaise-longueof the mistress of the house, who was conversing gaily with him, dressed in a charming pale blue morning toilette.
The abbé rose as the count entered, and the young lady welcomed him with a graceful smile as she offered him her hand.
"We have expected you for some time," she said. "The poor abbé has been wearied with his efforts to continue a conversation with me," she added in a roguish tone. "Where were you?"
"I have been preventing the completion of a great crime," replied the count gloomily, fixing his eyes firmly upon the lady's face.
She trembled involuntarily beneath his gaze.
"A crime?" she asked, "and where was it committed?"
"It was committed," said the count quietly, without removing his eyes, "it was committed upon a pure and noble creature whom a ruthless hand had destined to a horrible death, upon the Countess Clara Frankenstein."
Madame Balzer stood stiff and motionless. A deep pallor spread over her face, her lips trembled, her eyes sank before the firm and immovable gaze of the count. Her breast heaved, she tried to speak; but only a broken hissing breath came from her lips. "Abbé", said the count raising his hand and pointing to her, "you see this woman now standing before you, who was talking to you with smiling lips, whose eyes seemed to reflect the feelings of a good and noble heart--this woman is a murderess, who with cold cruelty has poisoned the warm pure blood of an innocent human being, a being who never harmed her except that she possessed the love of a young man, for whom this woman felt a wicked passion. God willed it otherwise," he added, "and gave me the power of saving this victim of her wickedness!"
Amazed, horrified, the abbé listened to the count's words; he looked enquiringly at the beautiful and elegant woman against whom such a frightful accusation was brought.