In the quiet chamber in the ancient hunting-castle, on the spot formerly occupied by the little bed, a casket now stood on two chairs near a wooden crucifix.
Freyer had returned, bringing the body of his child. He had telegraphed to the countess, but received in reply only a few lines: "She was compelled to set off on a journey at once, her mind was so much affected that her physician had advised immediate change of scene to avert worse consequences."
A check was enclosed to defray the funeral expenses and bestow a sum on Josepha "as a recognition of her faithful service," sufficient to enable her to live comfortably in case she wished to rest. Josepha understood that this was a gracious form of dismissal. But the royal gift which expressed the countess' gratitude did not avail to subdue the terrible rancor in her soul, or the harshness of this dismissal.
Morning was dawning. Josepha was changed by illness almost beyond recognition, yet she had watched through the night with Freyer beside the coffin. Now she again glanced over the letter which had come the evening before. "She doesn't venture to send me away openly, and wants to satisfy me with money, that I may go willingly. Money, always money! I was forced to give up the child, and now I must lose you, too, the last thing I have in the world?" she said to Freyer, who was sitting silently beside the coffin of his son. Tearing the cheque, she threw it on the floor. "There are the fragments. When the child is buried, I know where I shall go."
"You will not leave here, Josepha, as long as I remain. Especially now that you are ill. I have been her servant long enough. But this is the limit where I cease to yield to her caprices. She cannot ask me to give you up also, my relative, the only soul in my boundless solitude. If she did, I would not do it, for--no matter how lowly my birth, I am still her husband; have I no rights whatever? You will stay with me, I desire it, and can do so the more positively as my salary is sufficient to support you. So you need accept no wages from her."
"Yes, tell her so, say that I want nothing--nothing except to stay with you, near my angel's grave." Sobs stifled her words. After a time, she continued faintly: "I shall not trouble her long, you can see that."
"Oh, Josepha, don't fancy such things. You are young and will recover!" said Freyer consolingly, but his eyes rested anxiously upon her.
She shook her head. "The child was younger still, yet he died of longing for his mother, and I shall die of the yearning for him."
"Then let me send for a doctor--you cannot go on in this way."
"Oh, pray don't make any useless ado--it would only be one person more to question me about the child, and I shall be on thorns while I am deceiving him. You know I never could lie in my life. Leave me in peace, no doctor can help me."
Some one rang. Josepha opened the door. The cabinetmaker was bringing in a little coffin, which was to take the place of the box containing the leaden casket. Her black dress and haggard face gave her the semblance of a mother mourning her own child. Nothing was said during the performance of the work. Josepha and Freyer lifted the metal casket from the chest and placed it in the plain oak coffin. The man was paid and left the room. Freyer hastened out and shook the snow from some pine branches to adorn the bier. A few icicles which still clung to them thawed in the warm room, and the drops fell on the coffin--the tears of the forest! The last scion of the princely House of Prankenberg lay under frost-covered pine boughs; and a peasant mourned him as his son, a maid servant prepared him for his eternal rest. This is the bloodless revolution sometimes accomplished amid the ossified traditions of rank, which affords the insulted idea of universal human rights moments of loving satisfaction.
The two mourners were calm and quiet. They seemed to have a premonition that this moment possessed a significance which raised it far above personal grief.
An hour later the pastor came--a few men and maid-servants formed the funeral procession. Not far from the castle, in the wood, stood a ruinous old chapel. The countess had permitted the child to be buried there because the churchyard was several leagues away. "It is a great deal of honor for Josepha's child to be placed in the chapel of a noble family!" thought the people. "If haughty old Count Wildenau knew it, he would turn in his grave!" The coffin was raised and borne out of the castle. Josepha, leaning on Freyer, followed silently with fixed, tearless eyes and burning cheeks. Yet she succeeded in wading through the snow and standing on the cold stone floor in the chilly chapel beside the grave. But when she returned home, the measure of her strength was exhausted. Her laboring lungs panted for breath; her icy feet could not be warmed; her heart, throbbing painfully, sent all the blood to her brain, which burned with fever, while her thoughts grew confused. The terrible chill completed the work of destruction commenced by grief. Freyer saw it with unutterable sorrow.
"I must get a doctor!" he said gently. "Come, Josepha, don't stare steadily at the empty space where the body lay. Come, I will take you to my room and put you on the bed. Everything there will not remind you of the boy."
"No, I will stay here," she said, with that cruelty to herself, peculiar to sick persons who do not fear death. "Just here!" She clung to the uncomfortable sofa on which she sat as if afraid of being dragged away by force.
Freyer hastily removed the chairs which had supported the coffin, the crucifix, and the candles.
"Yes, put them out, you will soon need them for me. Oh, you kind-hearted man. If only you could have the happiness you deserve. You merited a better fate. Ah, I will not speak of what she has done to me, but her sins against you and the child nothing can efface--nothing!" A fit of coughing almost stifled her. But it seemed as if her eyes continued to utter the words she had not breath to speak, a feverish vengeance glittered in their depths which made Freyer fairly shudder.
"Josepha," he said mildly, but firmly. "Sacrifice your hate to God, and be merciful. If you love me, you must forgive her whom I love and forgive."
"Never!" gasped Josepha with a violent effort "Joseph--oh! this pain in my chest--I believe it is inflammation of the lungs!"
"Alas!--and there is no one to send for the doctor. The men are all in the woods. Go to bed, I beg you, there is not a moment to be lost, I must get the doctor myself. I will send the house-maid to you. Keep up your courage, I will be as quick as I can!"
And he hurried off, forgetting his grief for his child in his anxiety about the last companion of his impoverished life.
The house-maid came in and asked if she could do anything, but Josepha wanted no assistance. The anxious girl tried to persuade her to go to bed, but Josepha said that she could not breathe lying down. At last she consented to eat something. The nourishment did her good, her weakness diminished and her breathing grew easier. The girl put some wood in the stove and returned to her work in the kitchen. Josepha remained lost in thought. To her, death was deliverance--but Freyer, what would become of him if he lost her also? This alone rendered it hard to die. The damp wood in the stove sputtered and hissed like the voices of wrangling women. It was the "fire witch," which always proclaims the approach of any evil. Josepha shook her head. What could be worse than the evil which had already befallen her poor cousin and herself? The fire witch continued to shriek and lament, but Josepha did not understand her. A pair of crows perched in an old pine tree outside the window croaked so suddenly that she started in terror.
Ah, it was very lonely up here! What would it be when Freyer lived all alone in the house and waited months in vain for the heartless woman who remembered neither her husband nor her child? She had not troubled herself about the living, why should she seek the little grave where lay thedead?
A loud knock on the door of the house echoed through the silence.
Josepha listened. Surely it could not be the doctor already?
The maid opened it. Heavy footsteps and the voices of men were heard in the entry, then a dog howled. The stupid servant opened the door of the room and called: "Jungfer Josepha, here are two hunters, who are so tired tramping over the snow that they would like to rest awhile. Can they come in? There is no fire anywhere else!"
Josepha, though so ill, of course could not refuse admittance to the freezing men, who were already on the threshold. Rising with an effort from the sofa, she pushed some chairs for the strangers near the stove. "I am ill," she said in great embarrassment--"but if you wish to rest and warm yourselves here, I beg--"
"We are very grateful," said one of the hunters, a gentleman with a red moustache and piercing eyes. "If we do not disturb you, we will gladly accept your hospitality. We are not familiar with the neighborhood and have lost our way. We came from beyond the frontier and have been wading through the snow five hours."
Meanwhile, at a sign from Josepha, the maid-servant had taken the gentlemen's cloaks and hunting gear.
"See, this is our booty," said the other hunter. "If we might invite you to dine with us, I should almost venture to ask if this worthy lass could not roast the hare for us? Our cousin, Countess Wildenau, will surely forgive us this little trespass upon her preserves."
"Are you relatives of Countess Wildenau?"
"Certainly, her nearest and most faithful ones!"
Josepha, in her mortal weakness felt as if crushed by the presence of these strangers--with their heavy hunting-boots and loud voices. She tried to take refuge in the kitchen on the pretense of roasting the hare herself. But both gentlemen earnestly protested against it.
"No, indeed, that would be fine business to drive you out of your room when you are ill! In that case, we must leave the house at once."
The red-bearded gentleman--Cousin Wildenau himself--sprang from his chair and almost forced Josepha to go back to her sofa.
"There, my dear--madam--or miss? Now do me the honor to take your seat again and allow us to remain a short time unto the roast is ready, then you must dine with us."
A faint smile hovered around Josepha's parched lips. "I thank you, but I am too ill to eat."
"You are really very ill"--said the stranger with kindly solicitude. "You are feverish. I fear we are disturbing you very much. Pray send us away if we annoy you." Yet he knew perfectly well that she could not help asking the unbidden guests to stay.
"But my dear--madam--or miss?"--Josepha never answered the question--"are you doing nothing to relieve your illness, have you had no physician?"
"No we are in such a secluded place, a physician cannot always be had. But I am expecting one to-day."
"Why, it is strange to live in this wilderness. And how uncomfortable you are, you haven't even a stool," said the red-haired cousin putting his huge hunting-muff, after warming it at the stove, under her feet.
Josepha tried to refuse it, but he would not listen. "You need not mind us, we are sick nurses ourselves, we commanded a sanitary battalion in the war. So we understand a little what to do. You are suffering from asthma, it is difficult for you to breathe, so you must sit comfortably. There! Now put my cousin's muff at your back. That's better, isn't it?"
"But pray--"
"Come, come, come--no contradiction. You must be comfortable."
Josepha was ashamed. The gentlemen were so kind, so solicitous about her--there were good people in the world! The neglected, desolate heart gratefully appreciated the unusual kindness.
"But I am really astonished to find everything so primitive. Our honored cousin really ought to have done something more for your comfort. Not even a sofa-cushion, no carpet! I should have thought she would have paid more attention to so faithful a--" he courteously suppressed the word "servant"--and correcting himself, said: "assistant!"
Josepha made no answer, but her lips curled bitterly, significantly.
Wildenau noted it. "Dissatisfied!" escaped his lips, so low that only his companion heard it.
"You have been here a long time, I suppose--how many years?
"Have I been with her?" said Josepha frankly. "Since the last Passion Play. That will be ten years next summer."
"Ah--true--you are a native of Ammergau!" said the baron, with the manner of one familiar with the facts, whose memory has failed for an instant. "I suppose you came to the countess at the same time as the Christus?"
"Yes."
"Is he a relative of yours?"
"Yes, my cousin."
"He is here still, isn't he?"
"Why, of course."
"He is--her--what is his title?"
"Steward."
"Is he at home?"
"No, he has gone to the city for a doctor."
"Oh, I am very sorry. We should have been glad to make his acquaintance. We have heard so many pleasant things about him. A man in whom our cousin was so much interested--"
"Then she speaks of him?"
"Oh--to her intimate friends--certainly!" said Wildenau equivocally gazing intently at Josepha, whose face beamed with joy at the thought that the countess spoke kindly of Freyer.
"Why is he never seen in the city? He must live like a hermit up here."
"Yes, Heaven knows that."
"He ought to visit my cousin sometimes in the city, everybody would be glad to know the Ammergau Christus."
"But if she doesn't wish it--!" said Josepha thoughtlessly.
"Why, that would be another matter certainly, but she has never told me so. Why shouldn't she wish it?" murmured Wildenau with well-feigned surprise.
"Because she is ashamed of him!"
"Ah!" Wildenau almost caught his breath at the significance of the word. "But, tell me, why does Herr Freyer--isn't that his name--submit to it?"
Josepha shrugged her shoulders. "Yes, what can he do about it?"
A pause ensued. Josepha stopped, as if fearing to say too much. The two gentlemen had become very thoughtful.
At last Wildenau resumed the conversation. "I don't understand how a man who surely might find a pleasant position anywhere, can be so dependent on a fine lady's whims. You won't take it amiss, I see that your kinsman's position troubles you--were I in his place I would give up the largest salary rather than--"
"Salary?" interrupted Josepha, with flashing eyes. "Do you suppose that my cousin would do anything for the sake of a salary? Oh, you don't know him. If the countess described him to you in that way, the shame is hers!"
Wildenau listened intently. "But, my dear woman, that isn't what I meant, you would not let me finish! I was just going to add that such a motive would not affect your kinsman, that it could be nothing but sincere devotion, which bound him to our cousin--a loyalty which apparently wins little gratitude."
"Yes, I always tell him so--but he won't admit it--even though his heart should break."
Two dark interlaced veins in Josepha's sunken, transparent temples throbbed feverishly.
"But--how do you feel? We are certainly disturbing you!" said the baron.
"Oh, no! It does not matter!" replied Josepha, courteously.
"Could you not take us into some other room--the countess doubtless comes here constantly--there must be other apartments which can be heated."
"Yes, but no fire has been made in them for weeks; the stoves will smoke."
"Has not the countess been here for so long?"
"No, she scarcely ever comes now."
"But the time must be very long to you and your cousin--you were doubtless accustomed to the countess' visits."
"Certainly," replied Josepha, lost in thought--"when I think how it used to be--and how things are now!"
Wildenau glanced around the room, then said softly: "And the little son--he is dead."
Josepha stared at him in terror. "Do you know that?"
"I know all. My cousin has his picture in her boudoir, a splendid child."
Josepha's poor feverish brain was growing more and more confused. The tears she had scarcely conquered flowed again. "Yes, wasn't he--and to let such a child die without troubling herself about him!"
"It is inexcusable," said Wildenau.
"If the countess ever speaks of it again, tell her that Josepha loved it far more than she, for she followed it to the grave while the mother enjoyed her life--she must be ashamed then."
"I will tell her. It is a pity about the beautiful child--was it not like an Infant Christ?"
"Indeed it was--and now I know what picture you mean. In Jerusalem, where the child was christened, a copy as they called it of the Infant Christ hung in the chapel over the baptismal font. The countess afterwards bought the picture on account of its resemblance to the boy."
"I suppose it resembles Herr Freyer, too?" the baron remarked carelessly.
"Somewhat, but the mother more!"
Baron Wildenau began to find the room too warm--and went to the window a moment to get the air, while his companion, horrified by these disclosures, shook his head. He would gladly have told the deluded woman that they had only learned the child's death from a wood-cutter whom they met in the forest--but he dared not "contradict" his cousin. After a pause, Wildenau again turned to Josepha. He saw that there was danger in delay, for at any moment the fever might increase to such a degree that she would begin to rave and no longer be capable of making a deposition: The truth must be discovered, now or never! He felt, however, that Josepha's was no base nature which could be led to betray her employer by ordinary means. Caution and reflection were necessary.
"I am really touched by your fidelity to my cousin. Any one who can claim such a nature is fortunate. I thank you in her name."
He held out his hand. But she replied with her usual blunt honesty: "I don't deserve your thanks, sir. I have not remained here for the sake of the countess, but on account of the child and my unfortunate cousin. She has been kind to me--but--if I should see her to-day, I would tell her openly that I would never forgive her treatment of the child and Joseph--no matter what she did. The child is dead and my cousin will die too. Thank Heaven, I shall not live to witness it."
"I understand you perfectly--oh, I know my cousin. And--my poor dear Fräulein Josepha--I may call you Fräulein now, may I not, since you are no longer obliged to pass for the child's mother?--it was an unprecedented sacrifice for you--! Alas! My dear Fräulein, you and your cousin must be prepared to fare still worse, to be entirely forgotten, for I can positively assure you that the countess is about to wed the Hereditary Prince of Metten-Barnheim."
"What?" Josepha shrieked loudly.
Wildenau watched her intently.
"She has just gone to Cannes, where the old duke is staying, and the announcement of the engagement is daily expected."
"It is impossible--it cannot be!" murmured Josepha, trembling in every limb.
"But why not? She is free--has a right to dispose of her hand--" Wildenau persisted.
"No--she is not--she cannot marry," cried Josepha, starting from her sofa in despair and standing before them with glowing cheeks and red hair like a flame which blazes up once more before expiring. "For Heaven's sake--it would be a crime!"
"But who is to prevent it?" asked Wildenau breathlessly.
"I!" groaned Josepha, summoning her last strength.
"You?--My dear woman, what can you do?"
"More than you suppose!"
"Then tell me, that we may unite to prevent the crime ere it is too late."
"Yes, by Heaven! Before I will allow her to do Joseph this wrong--I will turn traitor to her."
"But Herr Freyer has no right to ask the countess not to marry again--"
"No right?" she repeated with terrible earnestness, "are you so sure of that?"
"He is only the countess' lover--"
"Her lover?" sobbed Josepha in mingled wrath and anguish: "Joseph, you noble upright man--mustthisbe said of you--!"
"I don't understand. If he is not her lover--what is he?"
Josepha could bear no more. "He is her husband--her legally wedded husband."
The baron almost staggered under this unexpected, unprecedented revelation. Controlling himself with difficulty, he seized the sick woman's hand, as if to sustain her lest she should break down, ere he had extorted the last disclosure from her--the last thing he must know. "Only tell me where and by whom the marriage ceremony was performed."
As if under the gaze of a serpent the victim yielded to the stronger will: "At Prankenburg--Martin and I--were witnesses." She slipped from his hand, her senses grew confused, her eyes became glassy, her chest heaved convulsively in the struggle for breath, but the one word which she still had consciousness to utter--was enough for the Wildenaus.
When, a few hours later, Freyer returned with the physician and the priest, whom he had thoughtfully brought with him, he found Josepha alone on the sofa, speechless, and in the last agonies of death.
The physician, after examining her, said that an acute inflammation of the lungs had followed the tuberculosis from which she had long suffered and hastened her end. The priest gave her the last sacrament and remained with Freyer, sitting beside the bed in which she had been laid. The death-struggle was terrible. She seemed to be constantly trying to tell Freyer something which she was unable to utter. Three times life appeared to have departed, and three times she rallied again, as if she could not die without having relieved her heart of its burden. Vain! It was useless for Freyer to put his ear to her lips, he could not understand her faltering words. It was a terrible night! At last, toward morning, she grew calm, and now she could die. Leaning on his breast, she ceased her struggles to speak, and slowly breathed her last.Shehad conquered and she now knew thathewould conquer also. She bowed her head with a smile, and her last glance was fixed on him, a look of reconciliation rested on her Matures--her soul soared upward--day was dawning!
There was alarm in the Wildenau Palace. The countess had suddenly returned, without notifying the servants--in plain words, without asking the servants' permission. She had intended to remain absent several months--they were not prepared, had nothing ready, nothing cleaned, not even a single room in her suite of apartments heated.
She seemed absent-minded, went to her rooms at once, and locked herself in. Then her bell rang violently--the servants who were consulting together below scattered, the maids darted up the main staircase, the men up a side flight.
"I want the coachman, Martin!" was the unexpected order.
"Martin isn't here," the footman ventured to answer--"as we did not know ..."
"Then send for him!" replied the countess imperiously. She did not appear even to notice the implied reproof. Then she permitted the attendant to make a fire on the hearth, for it was a raw, damp day in early spring, and after her stay in Cannes, the weather seemed like Siberia.
Half an hour elapsed. Meanwhile the maids were unpacking, and the countess was arranging a quantity of letters she had brought with her. They were all numbered, and of ancient date. Among them was one from Freyer, written four weeks previously, containing only the words:
"Even in death, Josepha has filled a mother's place to our child--she has rested in the chapel with him since this morning. I think you will not object to her being buried there.
"Joseph."
The countess again glanced at the letter, her eyes rested on the errors in orthography. Such tragical information, with so terrible a reproach between the lines--and the effect--a ludicrous one! She would gladly have effaced the mistakes in order not to be ashamed of having given this man so important a part in the drama of her life--but they stood there with the distinctness of a boy's unpractised hand. A man who could not even write correctly! She had not noticed it before, he wrote rarely and always very briefly--or had she possessed no eyes for his faults at that time? Yes, she must have been blind, utterly blind. She had not answered the letter. Now she tore it up and threw it into the fire. Josepha's death would have been a deliverance to her, had she not a few weeks later received another letter which she now read once more, panting for breath. But, however frequently she perused its contents, she found only that old Martin entreated her to return--Josepha had "blabbed."
That one word in the stiff hand of the faithful old servant, which looked as if it might have been scrawled with a match upon paper redolent of the odors of the stable, had so startled the countess that she left Cannes by the first train, and traveled day and night to reach home. A nervous restlessness made the sheet tremble in her hand as she thrust it into the flames. Then she paced restlessly to and fro. Martin was keeping her waiting so long.
A little supper had been hurriedly prepared and was now served. But the countess scarcely touched the food and, complaining that the dining-room was cold, crept back to her boudoir. At last, about half past nine, Martin was announced. He had gone to bed and they had been obliged to rouse him.
"Is Your Highness going out?" asked the footman, who could not understand the summons to Martin.
"If I am, you will receive orders for the carriage," replied his mistress, and a flash from her eyes silenced the servant. "Let Martin come in!" she added in a harsh, imperious tone.
The man opened the door.
"You are dismissed for to-night. The lights can be put out," she added.
Martin stood, hat in hand, awaiting his mistress' commands. A few minutes passed, then the countess noiselessly went to the door to see that the adjoining rooms were empty and that no one was listening. When she returned she drew the heavy curtains over the door to deaden every sound. Then her self-control gave way and rushing to the old coachman she grasped his hand. "Martin, for Heaven's sake, what has happened?"
Tears glittered in Martin's eyes, as he saw his mistress' alarm, and he took her trembling hands as gently as if they were the reins of a fiery blooded horse, on which a curb has been placed for the first time. "Ho--ho--dear Countess, only keep quiet, quiet," he said in the soothing tones used to his frightened steeds: "All is not lost! I didn't let myself be caught, and there's no proof of what Josepha blabbed."
"So they tried to catch you? Tell me"--she was trembling--"how did they come to you?"
"Well," said Martin clumsily, "this is how it was. They seem to have driven Josepha into a corner. At her funeral the cook told me that just before she died, two strangers came to the house and had a long conversation with the sick woman. When the hare she was ordered to cook was done, she carried it up. But the people in the room were talking so loud that she didn't dare go in and stood at the door listening. Something was said about the countess' favor and a crime, and Josepha was terribly excited. Suddenly she heard nothing more, Josepha stammered a few unintelligible words, and the gentlemen came out with faces as red as fire. They left the hare in the lurch--and off they went. Josepha died the same night. Then I thought they might be the Barons von Wildenau, because their coachman had often tried to pump me about our countess, and I said to myself, 'now I'll do the same to him.' And sure enough I found out that the gentlemen had gone away, and where? To Prankenberg!"
The countess turned pale and sank into an arm-chair. "There, there--Your Highness, don't be troubled," Martin went on calmly--"that will do them no good, the church books don't lie open on the tavern tables like bills of fare, and the old pastor will not let everybody meddle with them."
"The old pastor?" cried the countess despairingly--"he is dead, and since my father, the prince, has grown weak-minded, the patronage has lapsed to the government. The new pastor has no motive for showing us any consideration."
"So the old pastor is dead? H'm, H'm!" Martin for the first time shook his head anxiously. "If one could only get a word from His Highness the Prince--just to find out whether the marriage was really entered in the record."
"Yes, if we knew that!"
Martin smiled with a somewhat embarrassed look. "I ventured to take a little liberty--and went--I thought I would try whether I could find out anything from him? Because His Highness--you remember--followed us to Prankenberg."
"Very true!" The countess nodded in the utmost excitement. "Well?"
"Alas!--it was useless! His Highness doesn't know anybody, can remember nothing. When you go over to-morrow, you will see that he can't live long. His Highness is perfectly childish. Then he got so excited that we thought he would lose his breath, and at last had to be put to bed. I could not help weeping when I saw it--such a stately gentleman--and now so helpless!"
The countess listened to this report with little interest. Her father had been nothing to her while he retained his mental faculties--now, in a condition of slow decay, he was merely a poor invalid, to whom she performed the usual filial duties.
"Go on, go on," she cried impatiently, "you are not telling the story in regular order. When did you see my father?"
"A week ago, after my talk with the gentlemen."
"That is the main thing--tell me about that."
"Why, it was this way: I was sitting quietly at the tavern one night, when Herr von Wildenau's coachman came to me again and said that his master wanted to talk with me about our bay mare with the staggers which he would like to harness with his bay. I was glad that we could get the mare off on him."
"Fie, Martin!"
"Why--if nobody tried to cheat, there wouldn't be any more horse-trading! So I told him I thought the countess would sell the mare--we had no mate for her and I would inform Your Highness. No, the gentleman would write directly to Her Highness--only I must go to them, they wanted to talk with me. Well--I went, and they shut all the doors and pulled the curtains over them, just as your Highness did, and then they began on the bay and promised me a big fee, if I would get her cheap for them. Every coachman takes a fee," the old man added in an embarrassed tone, "it's the custom--you won't be vexed, Countess--so I made myself a bit important and pretended that it depended entirely on me, and I would make Her Highness so dissatisfied with the mare that she would be glad to get rid of her cheap, and--all the rest of the things we coachmen say! So the gentlemen thought because I bargained with them about one thing, I would about another. But that was quite different from a horse-trade, and my employers are no animals to be sold, so they found that they had come to the wrong person. If I would make a little extra money by getting rid of a poor animal, which we had long wanted to sell, I'm not the rascal to take thousands from anybody to deprive my employers of house and home. And the poor old Prince, who can no longer help himself, would perhaps be left to starve in his old age. No, the gentlemen were mistaken in old Martin, they don't know what it is"--tears were streaming down the old man's wrinkled cheeks--"to put such a little princess on a horse for the first time and place the reins in her tiny hands."
"Please go on Martin," said the countess gently, scarcely able to exert any better control over herself. "What did they offer you?"
"A great deal of money, if I would bear witness in court that you were married."
"Ah!"--the terrified woman covered her face with her hands.
"There--there, Countess," said Martin, soothingly. "I haven't finished! Hold your head up. Your Highness, I beg you, this is no time to be faint-hearted, we must be on the watch and keep the reins well in hand, that they may not get the start of us."
"Yes, yes! Go on!"
"Well, they tried to catch me napping. They knew everything, and I had been a witness of the wedding at Prankenberg!"
"Good Heavens!" The countess seemed paralyzed.
Martin laughed. "But I didn't let myself be caught--I looked as stupid as if I couldn't bridle a horse, and had never heard of any wedding in all my days except our Princess' marriage to the late Count. Of course I was at the church then, with all the other servants. Then the gentlemen muttered something in French--and asked what wages I had, and when I told them, they said they were too low for such rich employers, and began to make me offers till they reached fifty thousand marks, if I would state what they wanted. Yes, and then they told me you were capable of marrying two men and meant to take the duke as well as the steward, and they didn't want to have such a crime in the family--so I must help them prevent it. But this didn't move me at all, and I said: 'That's no concern of mine; my mistress knows what to do!' So off I went, and left the gentlemen staring like balky horses when they don't want to pass anything. Then I went to the Prince, and as I could learn nothing there, I knew of no other way than to write to Your Highness. I hope you'll pardon the liberty."
"Oh, Martin, you trusty old servant! Your simple loyalty shames me; but I fear that your sacrifice is useless--they know all, Martin, nothing can save me."
Martin smiled craftily into the bottom of his hat, as if it was the source of his wisdom, "I think just this: If the gentlemendoknow everything, they have got toproveit, for Josepha is dead, and if they had found the information they wanted at Prankenberg, they needn't offer so much money for my testimony!"
The countess pressed her hand upon her head: "I don't know, I can't think any more. Oh, Martin, how shall I thank you? If the stroke of the pen which will give you the fifty thousand marks you scorned to receive from the Wildenaus can repay you--take it, but I shall still be your debtor." She hurriedly wrote a few words. "There is a check for fifty thousand marks, cash it early to-morrow morning. Don't delay an hour, any day may be the last that I shall have anything to give. Take it quickly."
But Martin shook his head. "Why, what is Your Highness thinking of? I don't want to be paid, like a bribed witness, for doing only my duty. There would have been no credit in refusing the money, if I took it afterward from Your Highness. No, I thank you most humbly--but I can't do it."
The countess was deeply ashamed. "But if I lose my property, Martin, if they begin a law-suit--I can no longer reward your fidelity. Have you considered that everything can be taken from me if they succeed in proving that I am married?"
Martin nodded: "Yes, yes, I know our late master's will. I believe he was jealous and wanted to prevent the countess from marrying again. But you needn't be troubled about me, I've saved enough to buy a little home which, in case of need, might shelter the countess and Herr Freyer, too. I have had it all from you!" Martin's broad face beamed with joy at the thought.
"Martin!"--she could say no more. Martin did not know what had happened--surely the skies would fall--the countess had sunk upon his breast, the broad old breast in which throbbed such a stupid, honest heart! He stood as motionless as a post or the pile of a bridge, to which a drowning person clings. But, during all the sixty-five years his honest heart had beat under the Prankenberg livery, it had never throbbed so violently as at this moment. His little princess! She was in his arms again as in the days when he placed her in the saddle for the first time. Then she wept and clung to him whenever the horse made a spring, but he held her firmly and she felt safe in his care--now she again wept and clung to him in helpless terror--but now she was a stately woman who had outgrown his protection!
"There--there, Countess," he said, soothingly. "God will help you. Go to rest. You are wearied by the long journey. To-morrow you will see everything with very different eyes. And, as I said before, if all the ropes break--then you will find lodging with old Martin. You always liked peasants' fare. Don't you remember how you used to slip in to the coachman's little room and shared my bread and cheese till the governess found it out and spoiled our fun? Yes, yes, bread and cheese were forbidden dainties, and yet they were God's gift which even the poorest might enjoy. You must remember the coachman's little room and how they tasted! Well, we haven't gone so far yet, and Your Highness' friends will not suffer it. Yet, if matters everdidcome to that, I believe Your Highness would rather accept a home from me than from any of these noblemen."
"You may be right there!" said the countess, with a thoughtful nod.
"May God guard Your Highness from either.--Has Your Highness any farther orders?"
"Yes, my good Martin. Go early to-morrow morning to the Prince--or rather the Duke of Metten-Barnheim--and ask him to call on me at ten o'clock."
"Alas--the duke went to shoot black cock this morning--I suppose he didn't know that Your Highness was coming?"
"Certainly not How long will he be away?"
"Till the end of the week, his coachman told me."
"This too!" She stood in helpless despair.
"The coachman said that His Highness was going to Castle Sternbach--perhaps Your Highness might telegraph there!"
"Yes, my good old friend--you are right!" And with eager haste she wrote a telegram. "There it is, Martin, it will reach him somewhere!"
And she remembered the message despatched nine years before, after the Passion Play, to the man whom she was now recalling as her last support. At that time she informed him that she should stay in Ammergau and let the roses awaiting her at home wither--now she remained at home and let the roses that bloomed for her in Ammergau languish.
The coachman, as if reading the mute language of her features and the bitter expression of her compressed lips, asked timidly: "I suppose Your Highness will not drive to the Griess."
"No!" she said, so curtly and hastily that it cut short any farther words.
For the first time a shadow flitted over honest Martin's face. Sadly, almost reproachfully, he wished his beloved mistress "a good night's rest," and stumbled wearily out. It had hurt him,--but "the last thing he had discovered," he did not venture, out of respect to his employer, to express even to himself.
Three weary days had passed. The countess was ill. At least she permitted her household to believe that she was unable to leave her room. No one was allowed to know that she had returned, and the windows of the Wildenau Palace remained closed, as when the owner was absent Thus condemned to total inactivity in the twilight of her apartments, she became the helpless prey of her gnawing anxiety. The third day brought a glimmer of hope, a telegram from the duke: "I will come at six this evening."
The countess trembled and turned pale as she read the lines. What was to be done now? She did not know, she only felt that the turning-point of her life had come.
"The Duke of Metten-Barnheim will call this evening and must be admitted, but no one else!" were the orders given to the servant.
Then, to pass away the time, she changed her dress. If she was to be poor and miserable, to possess nothing she formerly owned; she would at least be beautiful, beautiful as the setting sun which irradiates everything with rosy light.
And with the true feminine vanity which coquets with death and finds a consolation in being beautiful even in the coffin, she chose for the momentous consultation impending one of the most bewitching negligeé costumes in her rich wardrobe. Ample folds of rose-coloredcrêpe de chinewere draped over an under-dress of pink plush, which reflected a thousand shades from the deepest rose to the palest flesh color, the whole drapery loosely caught with single grey pearls. How long would she probably possess such garments? She perhaps wore it to-day for the last time. Her trembling hand was icy cold, as she wound a pink ribbon through her curls and fastened it with a pearl clasp.
There she stood, like Aphrodite, risen from the foam of the sea, and--she smiled bitterly--she could not even raise herself from the mire into which a single error had lured her. Then she was again overwhelmed by an unspeakable consciousness of misery, her disgrace, which made all her splendor seem a mockery. She was on the point of stripping off the glittering robe when the duke was announced. It was too late to change.
She hurried into the boudoir to meet him--floating in like a roseate cloud.
"How beautiful!" exclaimed the duke, admiringly; "you look like a bride! It must be some joyful cause which brought you back here so soon and made you send for me."
"On the contrary, Duke--a bride of misfortune--a penitent who would fain varnish the ugliness of her guilt in her friend's eyes by outward beauty."
"H'm! That would be at any rate a useless deed, Madeleine; for beautiful as you are, I do not love you for your beauty's sake. Nor is it for your virtues--you never aspired to be a saint, not even in Ammergau, where you least succeeded! What I love is the whole grand woman with all her faults, who seems to have been created for me, in spite of the obstacles reared between us by temperament and circumstances. The latter are accidents which may prevent our union, but which cannot deprive me of my share in you, the part whichIalone understand, and which I shall love when I see you before me as a white-haired matron, weary of life--perhaps then for the first time."
Emotion stifled the countess' words. She drew him down upon a chair by her side and sank feebly upon the cushions of her divan.
"Oh, how cold your hands are!" said the duke, gazing with loving anxiety into her eyes. "You alarm me. Spite of your rosy glimmer, you are pale as your own pearls. And now pearls in your eyes too? Madeleine--my poor tortured Madeleine--what has happened?"
"Oh, Duke--help, advise me--or all is lost. The Wildenaus have discovered my secret. Josepha, that half-crazy girl from Ammergau, has betrayed me!"
"So that is her gratitude for the life you saved." The duke nodded as if by no means surprised. "It was to be expected from that sort of person. Why did you preserve the fool?"
"I could not let her leap into the water."
"Perhaps it would have been better! This sham-saint had not even sufficient healthful nature in her to be grateful?"
"Ah, she had reason to hate me, she loved my child more than any earthly thing and reproached me for having neglected it. These people can imagine love only in the fulfillment of lowly duties and physical attendance. That a woman can have no time or understanding of these things, and yet love, is beyond their comprehension."
"A fine state of affairs, where the servant makes herself the judge of her mistress--nay even discovers in her conduct an excuse for the basest treachery. A plain maid-servant, properly reared by her parents, would have fulfilled her duty to her employers without philosophizing."
The countess nodded, she was thinking of old Martin.
"But," the duke continued, "extra allowance must of course be made for these Ammergau people."
"We will let her rest; she is dead. Who knows how it happened, or the struggles through which she passed?"
"Is she dead?"
"Yes, she died just after the child."
"Indeed?" said the duke, thoughtfully, in a gentler tone: "Well, then at least she has atoned. But, my dear Madeleine, this does not undo the disaster. The Wildenaus will at any rate try to make capital out of their knowledge of your secret, and, as the dear cousins are constantly incurring gaming and other debts--especially your red-haired kinsman Fritz--they will not let slip the opportunity of making their honored cousin pay for their discretion the full amount of their notes!"
"Ah, if that were all!"
"That all! What more could there be? I admit that it is unspeakably painful for you to know that your honor and your deepest secrets are in such hands--but how long will it be ere, if it please God, you will be in a position which will remove you from it all, and I--!"
"Duke--Good Heavens!--It is far worse," cried the countess, wringing her hands: "Oh, merciful God--at last, at last, it must be told. You do not know all, the worst--I had not courage to tell you--are you aware of the purport of my late husband's will?"
"Certainly--it runs that you must restore the property, of which he makes you sole heiress, to the cousins, if you marry again. What of that--do you suppose I ever thought of your millions?" He laughed gayly: "I flatter myself that my finances will not permit you to feel the withdrawal of your present income when you are my wife."
"Omnipotent Father!--You do not understand me! This is the moment I have always dreaded--oh, had I only been truthful. Duke, forgive me, pity me, I am the most miserable creature under the sun. I shall not be your wife, but a beggar--for I am married, and the Wildenaus know it through Josepha!"
There are moments when it seems as if the whole world was silent--as if the stars paused in their courses to listen, and we hear nothing save the pulsing of the blood in our ears. It is long ere we perceive any other sound. This was the case with the duke. For a long time he seemed to himself both deaf and blind. Then he heard the low hissing of the gas jets, then heavy breathing, and at last the earth began to turn on its axis again and things resumed their natural relations.
Yet his energetic nature did not need much time to recover its poise. One glance at the hopeless, drooping woman showed him that this was not the hour to think of himself--that he never had more serious duties to perform than to-day. Now he perceived for the first time that he had unconsciously retreated from her half the length of the room.
She held out her hand imploringly, and with the swiftness of thought he was once more at her side, clasping it in his own. "I have concealed this, deceived your great, noble love--for years--because I perceived that you were as necessary to my life as reason and science and all the other gifts I once undervalued. I did not venture to reveal the secret, lest I should lose you. The moment has come--you will leave me, for you must now make another choice--but do not be angry, grant me theoneconsolation of parting without rancor."
"We have not yet gone so far. I told you ten minutes ago that the accidents of temperament and circumstance may divide us, but cannot rob you of what was created for me, we do not part so quickly.--You have not deceived me, for you have never told me that you loved me or would become my wife, and your bearing was blameless. Your husband might have witnessed every moment of our intercourse. Believe me, the slightest coquetry, the smallest concession in my favor at your husband's expense would find in me the sternest possible judge. But though an unhappy wife, you were a loyal one--to that I can bear witness. If I yielded to illusions, it is no fault of yours--who can expect a nature so delicately strung as yours to make an executioner of the heart of her best friend? Those are violent measures which would not accord with the sweet weakness, which renders you at once so guilty and so excusable."
The countess hid her face as if overwhelmed by remorse and shame.
"Do not let us lose our composure and trust to me to care for you still, for your present position requires the utmost caution and prudence. But now, Madeleine--you have no further pretext for not telling me the whole truth! Now I must knowallto be able to act. Will you answer my questions?"
"Yes."
"Then tell me--are you really married to Freyer?"
"Yes!"
"So the farce must end tragically!" murmured the duke. "I cannot, will not believe it--it is too shocking that a woman like you should be ruined by the Ammergau farce."
"Not by that; by the presumption with which I sought to draw the deity down to me. Oh, it is a hard punishment. I prayed so fervently to God and, instead of His face, He showed me a mask and then left me to atone for the deception by the repentance of a whole life."
"Ah, can you really believe that the Highest Wisdom would have played so cruel a masquerade with you? Why should you be so terribly punished? No,ma chère amie, God has neither deceived nor wished to punish you. He showed Himself in response to your longing, or rather your longing made you imagine that you saw Him--and had you been content with that, you would have returned home happy with the vision of your God in your heart, like thousands who were elevated by the Passion Play. But you wantedmore; you possess a sensuous religious nature, which cannot separate the essence from theappearanceand, after havingseen, you desired topossessHim in the precise form in which He appeared to you! Had it depended upon you, you would have robbed the world of its God! Fortunately, it was only Herr Freyer whom you stole, and now that you perceive your error you accuse God of having deceived you. You talk constantly of your faith in God, and yet have so poor an opinion of Him? What had God to do with your imagining that the poor actor in the Passion Play, who wore His mask, must be Himself, and therefore wedded him!"
The countess made no reply. This was the tone which she could never endure. He was everything to her--her sole confidant and counselor--but he could not comprehend what she had experienced during the Passion Play.
"I am once more the dry sceptic who so often angered you, am I not?" said the Prince, whose keen observation let nothing escape. "But I flatter myself that you will be more ready to view matters from a sober standpoint after having convinced yourself of the dangers of intercourse with 'phantoms' and demi-gods, who lure their victims into devious paths where they are liable morally to break their necks."
The countess could not help smiling sorrowfully. "You are incorrigible!"
"Well, we must take things as they are. As you will not confess that you--pardon the frankness--have committed a folly and ruined your life for the sake of a fanciful whim, the caprice must be elevated to the rank of a 'dispensation of Providence,' and the inactive endurance of its consequences a meritorious martyrdom. But I do not believe that God is guilty either of your marriage or of your self-constituted martyrdom, and therefore I tell you that I do not regard your marriage, to use the common parlance, one of those 'made in Heaven'--in other words, anindissolubleone."
The countess shrank as though her inmost thoughts were suddenly pointing treacherous fingers at her. "Do you take it so lightly, Duke?"
"That I do not take it lightly is proved by the immense digression which I made to remove any moral and religious scruples. The practical side of the question scarcely requires discussion. But to settle the religious moral one first, tell me, was your marriage a civil or religious one?"
"Religious."
"When and where?"
"At Prankenberg, after the Passion Play. It will be ten years next August."
"How did it all happen?"
"Very simply: My father, who suddenly sought me, as usual when he was in debt, saw that I wanted to marry Freyer and, fearing a public scandal, advised me, in order to save the property--which he needed almost more than I--to marrysecretly. Wherever the Tridentine Council ruled, the sole requisite of a valid marriage was that the two persons should state, in the presence of an ordained priest and two witnesses, that they intended to marry. As my father was never very reliable, and might change his opinion any day, I hastened to follow his advice before it occurred to him to put any obstacles in my way, as the pastor at Prankenberg was wholly in his power. So I set off with Freyer and Josepha that very night. An old coachman, Martin, whose fidelity I had known from childhood, lived at Prankenberg. I took him and Josepha for witnesses, and we surprised the old pastor while he was drinking his coffee."
The prince made a gesture of surprise. "What--over his coffee?"
"Yes--before he could push back his cup, we had made our statement--and the deed was done."
The prince started up; his eyes sparkled, his whole manner betrayed the utmost agitation. "And you call that being married? And give me this fright?" He drew a long breath, as if relieved of a burden. "Madeleine, if you had only told me this at once!"
"But why? Does it change the matter?"
"Surely you will not persuade yourself that this farce with the old pastor in his dressing-gown and slippers, his morning-pipe and the fragrance of Mocha--was a wedding? You will not expect me as a Protestant, or any enlightened Catholic, to regard it in that light?"
"But what does the form matter? Protestantism cares nothing for the form--it heeds only the meaning."
"But the meaning was lacking--at least to you--to you it was a mere form which you owed to the sanctity of your lover's mask of Christus." He seized her hand with unwonted passion. "Madeleine, for once be truthful to yourself and to me--am I not right?"
"Yes!" she murmured almost inaudibly.
"Well, then--if themeaningwas lacking and the chosen form anillegalone--what binds you?"
Madeleine was silent. This question was connected with her secret, which he would never understand. His nature was too positive to reckon with anything except facts. The duke felt that she was withholding an answer, not because she had none, but because she did not wish to give the true one. But he did not allow himself to be disconcerted. "Did the old pastor give you any written proof of this 'sacred rite'--we will give it the proud name of a marriage certificate."
"Yes."
"Who has the document?"
"Freyer!"
"That is unfortunate; for it gives him an apparent right to consider himself married and make difficulties, which complicate the case. But we can settle with Freyer--I have less fear of him. Your situation is more imperilled by this tale of a secret marriage, which Josepha, in good faith, brought to the ears of the Wildenaus. This is a disaster which requires speedy remedy. In other respects everything is precisely as it was when you went to Cannes. This complication changes nothing in my opinion. I hold the same view. If you no longerloveFreyer, break with him; the way of doing so is a minor matter. I leave it to you. But break with him and give me your hand--then the whole spectre will melt. We will gladly restore the Wildenau property to the cousins, and they will then have no farther motive for pursuing the affair."
"Is that true? Could you still think seriously of it--and I, good Heavens, must I become doubly a criminal?"
"But,chère amie, look at things objectively a little."
"Even if I do look at them objectively, I don't understand how I could marry again without being divorced, and to apply for a divorce now would be acknowledging the marriage."
"Who is to divorce you, if no one married you? According to civil law, you are still single, for you are not registered in accordance with your rank--according to religious law you are not married, at least not in the opinion of the great majority of Christian countries and sects, to whom the Tridentine Council is not authoritative! Will you insist upon sacrificing your existence and honor to a sentimental scruple? Will you confess to the Wildenaus that you are married? In that case you must not only restore the property, but also the interest you have illegally appropriated for nine years, which will swallow your little private property and rob you of your sole means of support. What will follow then? Do you mean to retire with the 'steward' from the scene amid the jeering laughter of society, make soup for him at his home in Ammergau, live by the labor of his hands, and at Christmas receive the gift of a calico gown?"
The countess shuddered, as though shaken by a feverish chill.
"Or will you continue to live on with Freyer as before and suffer the cousins to begin an inquiry against you, and afford the world the spectacle of seeing you wrangle with them over the property? Then you must produce the dogmatic and legal proof that you are not married. This certainly would not be difficult--but I must beg you to note certain possibilities. If it is decided that your marriage wasillegal, then the question will be brought forward--how didyou yourselfregard it? And it might occur to the Wildenaus' lawyers that, no matter whether correctly or not, you considered yourself married and intentionally defrauded them of the property!"
"Merciful Heaven!"
"Or will you then escape a criminal procedure by declaring that you regarded your connection with Freyer as an illegal marriage?"
"Oh!" the countess crimsoned with shame.
"There the vindication would be more dishonoring than the accusation--so you must renouncethat. You see that you have been betrayed into acirculus vitiosusfrom which you can no longer escape. Wherever you turn--you have but the choice between poverty or disgrace,--unless you decide to become Duchess of Metten-Barnheim and thus, at one bound, spring from the muddy waves which now threaten you, into the pure, unapproachable sphere of power and dignity to which you belong. My arms are always open to save you--my heart is ready to love and to protect you--can you still hesitate?"
The tortured woman threw herself at his feet. "Duke--Emil--save me--I amyours!"