"His Majesty desires me to assure you of his sincere sympathy, and to say that if you wish to go away in order to arrange your family affairs, to pursue investigations at the lake, or to divert your thoughts by travel, you are at liberty to do so. Leave of absence, for an indefinite period, will be sent after you."
These were the words with which the lord steward, who had been sent to inform Bruno of his sister's death, concluded his message. He pressed Bruno's hand, kissed him on both cheeks, and left.
As soon as he was out of doors the lord steward fanned himself with his pocket-handkerchief. The dread task which had fallen to his lot had greatly agitated him, but still he could not help admitting that Bruno had received the terrible news with great composure.
While the lord steward remained in the room, Bruno had sat on a sofa in the corner covering his face with his handkerchief, and listening quietly and patiently to it all, as if it were the news of some strange, remote event that in no way affected him.
But now he was alone again. He sat silent for awhile, unconsciously playing with a scented note which he had received a little while before.
Suddenly, he sprang from his seat as if crazed, seized a chair and broke it. This seemed to do him good. Then, as if possessed by a demon, he threw himself on the floor and lay there, raving, writhing, and screaming fearfully.
The servant entered and, finding his master lying on the floor, lifted him up.
"I'm ill!" said he. "No, I'm not ill! I won't be ill! Go at once to chamberlain Von Ross or to intendant Von Schoning, and request one of those gentlemen to come to me directly. If my wife inquires for me, say that I've gone out with the master of the household."
The servant went away and Bruno stood at the window, looking out into the street. The mist had disappeared and now revealed the park in all its beauty. The gardener was removing the pots that contained faded flowers, and replacing them with fresh ones. Arabella's pet greyhound was sitting on the gravel path; it looked up at its master and, in token of its joy, jumped about and ran around the arbor.
Although Bruno saw it all, he was thinking of something quite different.
"Ha ha!" he laughed, "I never thought that this world was anything but an empty farce. He who frets away an hour is a fool. Now I am quite free," said he, drawing himself up; "quite free. Now there is no one on earth for whom I need care. World, I am free and alone! And now for seventy years to come, give me all thy pleasures! Thou canst not harm me! I trample everything under foot!"
He stopped to listen--but no one came.
Bruno had always lived in society, but had never passed any time in the society of his own thoughts. Now, when he was lonely and in mourning they came to him--neglected-looking companions with an eager air and merry glances--and cried: "Leave it all; come with us! Let us be merry! What avails your grieving? You will be old before your time."
He stood before a mirror, and they said to him: "See how horrible you look."
He could not rid himself of his companions. They played merry dances; they jingled their gold and cried: "va banque"; they rattled the glasses and showed him voluptuous and seductive forms, and he could hear rude and wanton laughter. They filled the room; they seized him and wanted to dance about with him; but he stood firm, clenching his fists and unable to go. And then they cried to him: "We know you! You are a silly boy and care for what the world thinks. You have no courage! Cheer up! Let them taunt you, but be merry, nevertheless. The day you lose in fretting, no one can ever give back to you. Fie! at this begging for sympathy! Go about and say: 'I'm a poor man, my father's dead and my sister drowned herself.' Get some one to make a song for you, and another to paint a little sign, and wander about from fair to fair, asking for an alms. Fie! fie! You must do one thing or the other: despise the world, or let it pity you. Which do you choose? How often have you said: 'I despise the world'--and what makes you afraid? You are sitting there, and would like to go out; who closes the door? who has tied your horse's feet? You are alone. The dear friends, the kind-hearted beings, the sympathizing souls, will come and say: 'Be firm; be a man; conquer your grief!' And what will the dear souls do for you? They will give you the alms of sympathy and then leave you in solitude, while they go their way in search of pleasure. As long as there is playing, dancing, drinking, they are true and enduring friends; but no feast will be put off for your sake, nothing will be changed. If you mean to enjoy the world you must despise mankind. They merely say to you: 'Be a man'--but be one."
His thoughts worked him into a frenzy. The next few days seemed a yawning unfathomable abyss staring him in the face. All was empty, void, hollow, joyless, consuming solitude.
He was at last released, for the servant entered and announced the intendant.
They had not been great friends, but now Bruno embraced the intendant as if he were the only friend he had in the world, and lay on his neck sobbing and begging him not to abandon him to solitude. He raged and raved and, with a strange mixture of blasphemy and mockery, reviled his fate. "Oh, the terrible days that await me!" he exclaimed vehemently.
"Time heals all wounds," said the intendant.
"But to pass weeks, aye months, in mourning!" cried Bruno again.
The intendant started. He had received an insight into this man's character. What grieved him most was the long period during which he would have to seem to be in mourning.
It could not have happened at a more unfavorable time.
Bruno had entered two of his best horses for the races which were to come off in a few days. He had intended to ride Zuleika himself in a trotting match, and, for the great hurdle race, he had carefully trained Fitz, his groom. The name was really Fritz, but Fitz sounded better. Fitz, Baum's son, was a thorough rascal, in whom his father took great pride. His future was assured, for there was no doubt that if Fitz did not break his limbs, he would be the first jockey in the stables. He sat his horse like a cat, and it was impossible to throw him.
The weather was charming. There were just enough clouds to shield one from the burning rays of the sun, and during the night there had been a gentle rain which had improved the course. Fitz, in his green and white suit, would surely win the first prize. Bruno was not a little proud of Fitz's livery. He had, as it were, divided him in two, from the crown of his head to his feet his dress was grass-green on the right and snow-white on the left. What a pity that there are but seven cardinal colors, thus affording so little chance to indulge one's love of variety. But still, persistence can accomplish much, and while Bruno held his handkerchief before his face, he smiled at the thought of Fitz with one boot green and the other white.
"Of course, I shan't ride," he said to the intendant. "Do you think I ought to allow my jockey to do so? I may do that; may I not?" he hastily added, as if fearing a negative reply. "They would think it mean of me, if I didn't. I have a large amount staked on the race. I shall let Fitz ride. Yes, I must; there's no harm in that." He had scarcely finished speaking, when Fitz entered the room. In a harsh voice Bruno told him to go away. He was determined to act as though he had forgotten all about the races. That would prove his sorrow far more effectually than if he were to withdraw his engagement. He would submit to the fine for non-appearance, and the world would thus perceive that his grief was deep enough to make him forget everything.
The intendant sat on the sofa with Bruno. He held Bruno's hand in his--it was hot with fever.
Now that he had found the key to Bruno's character and present mood, he knew what was meant when the mourner exclaimed:
"I know how it is in the world. To-day and to-morrow there is hunting at Wolfswinkel; and day after to-morrow, the races. I am only surprised that I didn't forget everything in that one hour. His excellency Von Schnabelsdorf is now 'intellectualizing' with the handsome wife of ambassador Von N----. After that comes guard-mounting, and, this evening, there will be abanqueat Prince Arnold's.--Ah! the world goes on in its beaten track. If I could only forget it; for it forgets me.--Who has a thought for the solitary mourner? Oh, forgive me, my beloved, my only friend in this world. You will stay with me. You will never, never leave me. Don't leave me alone, or I shall go mad?"
The intendant felt sincere pity for the poor man. He had been invited to dine with the master of the horse, and merely wished to leave for a few moments in order to present his excuses in person. But Bruno would not permit him to go, and induced him to send his excuse in writing.
"Of course I'll stay with you," said the intendant consolingly. "At such moments, the presence of a friend is like a light in the night, obliging or, at all events, enabling one to see surrounding objects; it teaches us that the world has not yet ceased to exist, and that we do wrong to bury ourselves in solitude."
"Oh, you understand me! Tell me what to do, what to begin? I know nothing. I am like a child that has lost its way in the dark woods."
"Yes, that you are."
Bruno started. The intendant's confirmation of his opinion of himself rather displeased him.
"I am so weak now," said he. "Just think of what I've had to suffer during the last few days."
There was a strange mixture of gentleness and bitterness in his tone.
"May I smoke?" he asked.
"Certainly. Do anything that pleases you."
"Ah, no, nothing pleases me. And yet I should like to smoke."
He lit a cigar.
The world had, however, not quite forgotten him, as he had said in his anger. A visitor was announced. He hurriedly put the cigar away. The world was not to see him smoking, and was not to imagine that he was unfeeling, or that he did not mourn for his father and sister.
There were many visitors, and Bruno was again and again obliged to display his grief and to accept the sympathy offered him. He now saw how the rumor of Irma's death had spread throughout the city, from the palace to the hovel. People whom he hardly knew, and others who were even ill-disposed toward him, came. He was obliged to receive all politely, to thank them, and to accept their assurances of sympathy, while he fancied he could detect malicious pleasure in many an eye. But he was obliged to ignore this and, although now and then a nervous twitching of his features almost betrayed him, he managed to keep up the semblance of all-absorbing grief.
His companions in pleasure also visited him, and it was quite curious to witness the grave air which the young cavaliers assumed, now and then casting a glance at the great mirror in order to see whether the serious expression became them well.
It seemed almost comical to think that the man who was always the merriest in the party, and who could make the best and most unequivocal jokes, should now be so downcast. They seated themselves; they straddled the chairs and rested their arms on the backs; they lit their cigars, and much was said of their respective "papas."
"My papa has been dead this two years."
"My papa is ill."
"My papa intends to retire on his pension."
Some one asked: "Bruno, how old was your father?"
He did not know, but answered at a venture:
"Sixty-three."
They also spoke of the races; at first cautiously and almost in a whisper, but afterward in a loud voice. They spoke of Baron Wolfsbuchen's great loss.
"What happened to him?"
"Fatima, his splendid black mare, wouldn't obey him, and he struck her over the mouth with his sword. He had forgotten that the blade was sharp."
They spoke of the loss that he had incurred by forfeiting the stakes, and of the damage done his horse; but no one found fault with his cruelty.
At last his comrades left. As soon as they were out of doors, they stretched themselves. "Well, well; that's over." A visit of condolence is a sort of funeral parade, and one's words are like muffled drums. Before they left the carpeted staircase, they began to whisper scandal, and to tell that Bruno had forbidden his mother-in-law to come to the capital, as their majesties had been gracious enough to stand as sponsors to his young scion. The whole party concluded to lunch together, and have some wine. There were merry goings on at the French restaurant, and Bruno was often the topic of conversation.
"He will be enormously rich, for he inherits a double share."
"If he had known as much a year ago, who knows whether he would have married Steigeneck. His debts were not so heavy but that he could have held out for another year."
"He also inherits his sister's jewels, and they are of immense value."
As if he were two beings in one, the one here and the other there, Bruno's thoughts followed the companions who had left him.
He surmised what they were saying, and once started as if he had heard laughing behind him. It was nothing, however, but his sister's parrot, which he had ordered to be brought into his anteroom. He had it taken back to Irma's apartment, as he did not know whether it really belonged to her, and its eternal "God keep you, Irma," annoyed him.
He walked about the room for a long while, with his thumbs stuck into his closely buttoned coat, and his fingers playing a merry but inaudible tune upon his breast. The visits of condolence really annoyed him. It is so irksome to put on a sorrowful look, to listen to words of consolation, to offer thanks for sympathy, while all is a lie or, at most, an empty form-- It is simply one's duty to express sympathy with the afflicted. Perhaps people regret that they cannot, in such cases, send their empty carriages, as they do at funerals-- Is it not enough to let the world know that the grief was great and general, and that the funeral was a large one? These were Bruno's angry and ill-natured thoughts. "Then they go off," thought he, "the young and the old, in uniform and in citizen's dress, twisting their mustaches and stroking their chins, with a self-complacent air, while they say to themselves: 'You've done a good deed; you are a man of politeness and feeling--' and when they get home they tell their wives and daughters: 'The king's aid-de-camp is thus and so--' and then they eat and drink and drive out, and when they reach the house they say: 'We ought to feel satisfied when everything goes well with us, and our family escapes misfortune.' They use the misfortunes of others as they would a platform, from which to get a better view of their own prosperity." Bruno's fingers moved yet more quickly than before--death, grief, sickness were intended for the lower orders, and not for the higher classes. The world is miserably arranged after all, since there is no preservative against such ills, and since one cannot purchase immunity from them.
His excellency Von Schnabelsdorf also came. Bruno hated him at heart, for it was he who had invented the sobriquet of "Miss Mother-in-law" for Baroness Steigeneck, the whilom dancer. Bruno, however, felt obliged to act as if he knew nothing of it, to take his hand in the most polite and grateful manner, and to receive a kiss from the lips which had put a stigma upon his family; for Von Schnabelsdorf stood highest at court, and Bruno could not do without his friendship, which was doubly necessary, now that his main support, his sister, had been taken from him.
Thus Bruno felt annoyed at the visits of condolence he received, as well as at those which were withheld. The world was considerate enough to refrain from alluding to anything more than Irma's sudden and unfortunate death; how she was thrown from her horse and fell into the lake. The vice-master of the horse maintained that Pluto had never properly been broken in. Bruno, himself, behaved as if he really believed that Irma had met with her death by accident.
But it seemed as if he delighted to picture to himself the scene of the suicide, and to think of Irma at the bottom of the lake, held fast to the rocks by her long hair. He could not banish the awful picture, and at last threw open the window, so that he might divert himself with external objects.
Bruno did not care to eat or drink anything; the intendant could only induce him to take some food, by ordering dinner for himself. Bruno felt obliged to sit down with him, and, at every mouthful, he said: "I can't eat." At last, however, he ordered some champagne.
"I must build a fire in my engine!" said he, gnashing his teeth, while he thrust the bottle into the wine-cooler. "I derive as little pleasure from this as the engine does from the coals."
He drank down the wine hastily, and went on eating with a woe-begone expression, as if he would, at any moment, burst into tears.
He ordered more champagne.
"Did you see that?" said he, looking out of the window. His eyes were inflamed. "There's Kreuter, the merchant, riding Count Klettenheim's chestnut gelding. They must have played high last night, that the count should give up his horse; why, it's the pride of his life, his honor. What is Klettenheim without his gelding. A mere cipher, a double zero. Ah, my dear friend, excuse me! I am feverish, I am ill. But I won't be ill! I shall say nothing more. Go on; say whatever you please."
The intendant had nothing to say. He felt as ill-at-ease as if he were shut up in a dungeon with a maniac.
"I wish to speak with lackey Baum," cried Bruno suddenly. The intendant was obliged to dispatch a telegram to the summer palace, asking that Baum should be sent to the king's aid-de-camp.
Bruno let down the curtains, ordered lights and more wine, and gave orders that no one should be admitted. The intendant was in despair, but Bruno exclaimed:
"My dear friend, everything on earth is suicide, with this difference, however--here, one can always come to life again. The hour one kills is the only one that is rightly spent."
The intendant feared an outbreak of delirium, but Bruno was not one of those cavaliers who have only as much mind as the champagne they have just tossed down inspires them with, and who, at best, can only write a gallant billet-doux or devise a witty impropriety. At other times, Bruno would have laughed at the man who would ask him to adopt a system as his own, and yet he now asserted that he had one, and, filling his glass again, exclaimed: "Yes, my friend; there are only two kinds of human beings in the world."
"Men and women?" said the intendant, who thought it best to fall in with his vein, in order more easily to divert him from it.
"Pshaw!" interrupted Bruno. "Who is speaking of such things? Listen, my friend; the two human species are those who enjoy and those who suffer. He who lives for so-called ideas--for the good, the beautiful, the true. The man with an ideal may sacrifice his life, or be burnt at the stake. It is his duty. His life is a short and uneventful one, but is compensated by the long and enduring remembrance in which he is held by posterity. That balances the reckoning. Is it not so?"
The intendant was obliged to assent. What could he do?
"And the second species," added Bruno, "includes ourselves--those who enjoy. The best thing in the world is enjoyment without consequences. After I have been smoking, gaming or listening to music, I can do anything; nothing disturbs me then. Other pleasures unfortunately have consequences. One ought to have no family--no family--by all means, no family."
Bruno suddenly burst into tears. The intendant was at a loss how to help him, and reproached himself for not having induced Bruno to refrain from drinking and talking. Bruno threw his head back, and the intendant wrapped a piece of ice in a handkerchief and laid it on his forehead.
"Thanks!" said Bruno, closing his eyes; "thanks!"
He was soon asleep.
The servant entered. Bruno awoke. The intendant drew aside the curtains and opened the windows. It was high noon.
Word came that Baum had already started off with Doctor Sixtus, the court physician. "Then we will go without them," said Bruno, who had regained his composure.
"We?"
"You see, my grief makes me think that I have already told you everything. We must go to the lake to look for traces of my unfortunate sister. Have I really said nothing of this to you before?"
"No--but I am at your service. I will ask for leave of absence for myself and for you, too."
"There's no need of that. His majesty has already offered it to me. Your Majesty is very gracious--very. Do you think we serve you? Ha, ha! we only serve you because we can enjoy ourselves better, and in more varied ways, at your court. You are our host, and do not mind stealthily taking a tit-bit yourself, behind the bar--I beg of you, my dear friend--what did I say? You heard nothing--did you? It was delirium! I am growing mad! I must go out! Let us start this very day!"
The intendant consented and left him for an hour, in order to arrange various matters before his departure.
Bruno ordered his trunks to be packed, and gave instructions that two saddle-horses should be sent to the lake at once.
Bruno was standing in his room, surrounded by luggage of various shapes, when a servant announced his gracious mother-in-law.
"She here? And in spite of my prohibition?" thought he to himself. "Show her in," he said to the servant, who quickly threw open the folding-doors, and closed them again when the lady had entered. "Ah, my dear mother!" exclaimed Bruno, who was about to hurry forward to embrace her, but she coolly offered him her hand and said:
"No, no," and then, seating herself on a sofa, she continued:
"Draw near; take a seat."
"Do you know--?" inquired Bruno.
"I know all; you need tell me nothing."
"I thank you for coming to offer me your sympathy."
"I'm delighted--I meant to say that I feel comforted to find you so composed. Arabella knows nothing as yet?"
"No."
"Nor need she know of it.--What is the meaning of all this luggage?"
Bruno looked at her in astonishment. Who had any right to inquire, and in such a tone? "I'm going on a journey," he answered bluntly, and then, in order to prevent a scene, he added in a gentle tone: "As her brother, I must make inquiries in regard to the accident."
"I approve of that; it's quite proper," replied the Baroness. "Have you already had an understanding with him!--You don't seem to understand me, as you don't answer; I mean with this king."
"Yes," replied Bruno boldly, "but I have pledged my word to let it go no further."
"Very well, I respect your discretion; but now, a frank word with you. Please close theportière."
Bruno did as he was ordered, but ground his teeth as he walked toward the door. When he returned again, his manner was as polite and attentive as before.
"Proceed," said he, "no one hears us; a mourner listens to you patiently."
"A mourner! We have greater cause to mourn than you have. We thought we had allied ourselves with one of the best families in the land." Bruno started as if angry.
"Pray drop your acting for the present," continued the Baroness, whose voice and appearance had changed. "We are alone now, and unmasked. In spite of the outward show of politeness, you have never treated me with the respect which I have a right to demand. Don't contradict me; please let me finish what I am about to say: When I calmly reflected on the matter, I was not angry with you on that account. I knew my position. But now, my dear son-in-law, matters have changed. I was what your sister was, but I never feigned virtue. The world esteemed me at my true value--"
Bruno heaved a deep sigh.
The Baroness continued, grinding her teeth with anger as she spoke:
"When your sister was so kind to us, I could have knelt to her in humility. She must give me back my humility, though she be in hell! It was not she who was the better; it was I--But now, my son-in-law, your disdainful behavior must cease. Let me tell you, you ought to feel glad that we've allied ourselves with you. But we shall never let you feel it; that is, if you conduct yourself in a becoming manner."
"And am I not doing so?" asked Bruno, who, during this attack, had entirely lost his self-command.
"We will see; but, first of all, let me tell you that, after this, I shall reside with Arabella as often and as long as I choose to. This insipidly moral queen has been taught a lesson, too. At present, however, I have no desire to appear at court. But the social circle is open to me--I shall enter it, arm in arm with you, my amiable, my gallant son."
The old woman rose and, bowing gracefully, offered her arm to Bruno. The latter took his mother-in-law's hand in his own and held it to his lips.
"Fie! you've been drinking wine, in your grief!" cried the old danseuse, hurriedly putting her fine and strongly perfumed handkerchief to her lips.
"Miss Mother-in-law--" the words were on the end of Bruno's tongue; he would like to have hurled them at her. Steps were heard. A moment afterward the intendant entered, his presence serving as a great relief to Bruno.
"I beg pardon! don't let me disturb you," said he, when he saw Bruno's mother-in-law.
"You're not disturbing us," replied Bruno quickly. "In spite of a violent attack of fever, our dear mother, now our grandmother, has hastened to console us. I am fortunate in still having a few faithful relatives, and a friend like yourself. I shall now live entirely for the family still left me."
The Baroness nodded a pleased assent. She was thoroughly satisfied with Bruno's first rehearsal of his newrôle.
"We shan't leave to-day?" inquired the intendant.
"Yes, yes. We must not lose another minute."
The mother-in-law undertook to tell Arabella of Bruno's departure, and to inform her that he had been sent away on public business.
While slowly drawing on his black gloves, Bruno thanked his mother-in-law. He thanked her sincerely, for while he well knew that he was about to enter upon a state of dependence, and that her presence in his house would prove distasteful to him in many ways, he, at the same time, consoled himself with the hope that she would prove a companion to his wife, and that he could thus absent himself from home more frequently, and for longer periods, than he had before done; for he felt it not a little irksome to be obliged to spend so much of his time with his wife. The leave-taking was short, but hearty. Bruno was permitted to kiss his mother-in-law's cheek. After he got into the carriage, he rubbed his lips till they were almost sore, in order to wipe the rouge off of them.
It was already evening when they drove off, and they passed the night at the first posting-house. Bruno lay down on the bed to rest himself "for a little while," but he did not awake until late the following morning.
The queen, overcome with grief, lay sleeping in her apartment.
The court ladies were gathered together on the terrace under the weeping ash, and did not care to leave one another. It seemed as if a fear of ghosts oppressed them all. It was but a few days since Irma had been in their midst. She had been sitting in the chair without a back--she never leaned against anything. The seat she had occupied remained empty, and if the paths were not freshly raked every morning, her footprint would still be there. And now she had vanished from the world. Her light had been extinguished, and in so terrible a manner. Who could tell how long her ghost might haunt the palace and what mischief it might do. The world, at last, knew what had been going on.
The ladies were busily engaged at their embroidery. At other times, they would take turns in reading aloud; but to-day their book--it was a French novel, of course--remained untouched. They were intensely interested in the story, but no one ventured to propose that the reading should be gone on with, nor did sustained conversation seem possible. Now and then a voice was heard: "Dear Clotilde," "Dearest Hannah, can you lend me some violet, or some pale green?" "Oh, I tremble so, that I cannot thread my needle; have you a needle-threader?"
It was, fortunately, at hand. They were, none of them, willing to appear so little moved as to be able to thread a needle.
They deplored Irma's fate, and it did them good to be able to show how kind and merciful they were. They felt happy in being able to accord their pious forgiveness to the unhappy one, and, since they had been so gentle and forgiving, they felt it their right to denounce her crime the more severely. It was thus they avenged themselves for the self-humiliation they had endured; for, while Irma was the prime favorite, they had paid greater homage to her than to the queen.
They never mentioned the royal couple except in terms of respect--with all their apparent confidence, they distrusted each other. They felt that there was trouble ahead, but that it was best for them to appear unconscious of it.
Countess Brinkenstein was the only one Who had a good word to say for Irma.
"Her father was greatly to blame," said she; "it was he who instilled this belief in Irma."
"And yet he had her educated at the convent."
"But she inherited from him a contempt for all forms and traditions, and that was her misfortune. She had a lovely disposition, was richly endowed by nature, and her heart was free from the slightest trace of envy or ill-nature."
No one ventured to contradict Countess Brinkenstein; Perhaps, thought they, etiquette requires us to speak well of Irma and to forget her terrible deed.
"Who knows whether her brother would have married the Steigeneck, if he had known that he was to inherit everything!" softly whispered a delicate and languishing little lady to her neighbor, while she bent over her wool-basket.
The one whom she had addressed looked at her with a sad, yet grateful expression. She had once loved Count Bruno, and still loved him.
"I have a book of hers."
"And I have one of her drawings."
"And I have some of her music."
They shuddered at the thought of possessing articles which had once been hers, and determined that everything should be sent to her brother.
"I passed her rooms, early this morning," said Princess Angelica's maid of honor--she always seemed as if half-frozen, and rubbed her hands and breathed on her fingertips while she spoke--"the windows were open. I saw the lonely parrot in his cage, and he kept calling out, 'God keep you, Irma.' It was dreadful."
They all shuddered, and yet they felt a secret satisfaction in dwelling on the subject. The pious court lady joined the circle, and mentioned that Doctor Sixtus had just taken leave of her, that he had started for the Highlands, that Fein, the notary, had accompanied him, that he had also taken Baum along, and that they meant to search for the body of Countess Irma.
"Will he bring her here, or to Wildenort castle?"
"How terrible, to be gaped at in death by common people!"
"Horrible! it makes me shudder."
"Pray let me have your vinaigrette."
A bottle of English smelling-salts was passed round the circle.
"And to have every bystander volunteer a funeral sermon!"
"How improper to take one's life in so public a manner!"
"If there were no horrid newspapers," whined the freezing court lady.
The conversation gradually assumed a more cheerful tone.
"Ah me!" exclaimed a pert and pretty court lady, "how we were all obliged to 'enthuse' about the beauties of nature and the genial traits of the lower orders during her life and reign. Now, I imagine one may at last venture to say that nature's a bore, and that the lower orders are horrid, without being regarded as a heretic."
In spite of the malice that flavored it, they found the remark both just and appropriate. In a little while they were all conversing and laughing, just as if nothing had happened.
A wanton boy has shot a sparrow. The rest of the flock are very sad, and pipe and prate about the matter for a while; but soon they hop about again, and chirrup as merrily as before.
To give truth its due, it is necessary to state that many of the ladies would have been glad to speak well of Irma, but they kept such feelings in the background. Of all things in the world they dreaded showing themselves sentimental.
It was not until Countess Brinkenstein again began to speak, that the rest of the company became more calm and dignified than they had been.
Countess Brinkenstein's demeanor seemed to say: "I am, unfortunately, the one who prophesied it all; and now that it has all come to pass as I said it would, I am not in the least proud of it." It was both her right and her duty to speak compassionately of Irma, and yet, at the same time, mildly to point a moral.
"Eccentricity. Ah, yes, eccentricity!" said she. "Poor Countess Wildenort! The publicity of her deed is, in itself, a serious offense; but do not let us, while thinking of her terrible fate, forget that she was undeniably possessed of many good traits. She was beautiful, anxious to please every one, and yet without a trace of coquetry. She possessed intellect and wit, but she never used them to slander others. A poor eccentric creature!"
This disposed of Irma, and the other court ladies had, at the same time, received a lesson.
The eyes of all were directed toward the valley.
"There goes the carriage!" they said. Doctor Sixtus saw the ladies and saluted them. The notary sat by his side, and Baum sat opposite. He was too tired to sit up on the box. "It is scarcely a year since we made this same journey together," said Sixtus to Baum.
Baum was not in a talkative mood; he was too tired. After great preparations, he had that day passed his examination, and could say to himself that he had not come off without honors. Although he was not accustomed to find himself inside of the carriage, he yet thought he might take it for granted that this would henceforth be his place. He was about to become a different, a more exalted personage. He had, indeed, become such already--all that was needed was the outward token. He would have been willing to remain a simple lackey. Perhaps the king desired to have it so, lest he might betray himself. He was willing to let him have his own way, even in this. He and the king knew how they stood toward each other. He smiled to himself, and felt like a girl whose lover has declared his affection for her; the formal wooing can take place at any time.
When Doctor Sixtus helped himself to a cigar, Baum was at once ready with a light. That, however, was, for the present, his last act of service. Nature was not to be overcome, and Baum was impolite enough to fall asleep in the presence of the gentlemen. But he was so well schooled that, even while asleep, he sat upright and ready at any moment to obey their commands.
It was not until they halted that Baum awoke. The notary's searching questions greatly disturbed his comfort. What matters the death of a countess, thought he, if one can rise by means of it. He was greatly annoyed that his family--his mother, his brother and his sister--were mixed up in the affair; and hadn't Thomas said something about the death of Esther, or was it merely a dream? Events had succeeded each other so rapidly that they quite bewildered him.
Doctor Sixtus apologized to the notary for Baum's disconnected narrative.
Baum looked at him in amazement. Did he already know that Baum was about to be advanced, and did he mean to curry favor with him? He was cunning enough to think of such a thing.
Baum resolved, for the present, only to show the spot where he had found the hat and shoes, and to leave his mother and brother entirely out of the affair. At all events, he would not drag them into it, and suggested that they should take the forester with them. They found him at last, and then wended their way toward the assize town in which Doctor Kumpan lived.
Sixtus sent for the latter. He soon came to the inn, and the jolly fellow was lavish in his praise of Countess Irma. He thought it greatly to her credit that she had had courage to live and die as she chose. Besides that, Kumpan delighted in joking his friend, in regard to the great missions on which he had been employed, looking up wet nurses and hunting corpses. He asked for the privilege of being permitted to dissect the countess.
Doctor Sixtus did not in the least relish the coarse humor of his former fellow-student. Doctor Kumpan told him of the great change that had taken place in Walpurga's circumstances, that she and the rest of her family had moved far away to the Highlands, near the frontier. He also told him several very funny stories at Hansei's expense, and especially about the wager for six measures of wine.
Sixtus informed his comrade that Walpurga was no longer a favorite at court, and that it would soon be proven that she had been the mediator. Although he spoke in an undertone, Baum heard every word. After Sixtus had made this disclosure to Kumpan, he felt sorry for what he had done, but it was just because they had so few subjects in common, that he had told him the very matters he desired to keep from him. All that remained was to make his friend promise not to mention a word of the affair, and Kumpan always was a man of his word.
After Kumpan had left, Baum went up to Sixtus again and told him that he thought it would be well to go to Walpurga, as she might know something of the affair; but Sixtus replied that the journey would be a useless one, and that Baum was to remain with him.
On the following morning, Bruno would have liked to return. What was the use of it all? Was he to act the fable of the little brother and sister over again, and to be the little brother who had gone in search of his sister? And what would be the result? A dreadful, agitating sight--one which he could never banish from his memory. It would haunt him in his dreams--a bloated, disfigured corpse with open mouth.
Bruno cast an injured look upon the friend who congratulated him on having slept so well, and on having thus gained new strength for the trials the day might have in store for him. Bruno looked at the intendant with feelings of anger and distrust. He felt almost certain that this man regarded the whole occurrence as a tragic drama, which would have to be mounted for the stage. It was evident to him that the intendant was using this as a study, of which he would avail himself in future scenic representations, and that he was observing his every gesture and feature, so that he might be able to instruct the actors under him; so that he might say: "Thus does one pose himself, and thus does one groan when he finds his sister's corpse-- Am I to be this puppet's puppet? No, never!"
Bruno would have liked, best of all, to have journeyed back to his mother-in-law, even if he had to succumb to her. He could convert his humility into gallantry, and, at all events, would be spared these terrible sights. But here was his friend encouraging him to neglect nothing which fraternal duty demanded of him. Oh! these people of feeling are the most abominable of mortals, for they take everything so seriously. Do they really mean all they say? Who knows? Every one in the world is merely playing a part, after all.
He must go on, and he saw what was in store for him. This terrible friend with the strong sense of duty--and, after all, he was not his friend--this man, whom he had inflicted on himself, would force him to spend days, searching for horrors which he had no desire to find. They drove on, in an ill-humor.
The intendant, finding that Bruno would formally thank him for every little service, declared:
"I beg of you, don't thank me. I am only doing my duty to my friend and to myself. You know that I once loved your sister, and that she rejected my suit."
He was discreet enough to refrain from adding that he had afterward rejected her offer, and Bruno groaned inwardly at his cruel discretion.
The intendant found Bruno quiet and reserved. Concluding that this was the natural reaction from the excitement of the previous day, he, too, remained silent. Bruno often looked at the intendant, as if he were a jailer leading him to the place of punishment. They drove on rapidly. At the different post-houses, where they stopped to change horses, the intendant would fluently converse with the postillions and the innkeepers in their native dialect. Several of them knew him.
To his great alarm, it suddenly occurred to Bruno that he had the saloon warbler with him. He was perfectly at home here, and would now have a chance to display the treasures of his dialect wardrobe, to pursue his studies, and revel in the pleasure which the rude dialect of the region afforded him.
His friend, for this was the only term by which he dared characterize him, was now in his element, and found it no easy matter to refrain from expressing his delight thereat.
At length they reached the last mountain and saw, from afar, the mirror-like surface of the lake, surrounded by gigantic mountains and sparkling in the golden sunshine.
"Do you see that maple tree, over there?" said the intendant, no longer able to contain himself, "there to the left, by the small rock--that is the point from which I sketched the painting that hangs in her majesty's music-room."
The friend had imagined that this remark might help to create a calmer mood in Bruno, so that the terrible idea of his sister's having sought her death below that very spot, might not at once obtrude itself.
Bruno looked at him with an impatient air. Every one thinks of himself, said an inner voice, and this coxcomb is now thinking of his daubs. He remained silent, however, for silence was more expressive of grief than words could be. He rubbed his eyes, for the dazzling reflection of the sun's rays on the surface of the lake had made them ache. His friend grasped his hand and silently pressed it. He had understood this fraternal heart, and his glance meant: others may think you superficial and frivolous, but I know you better.
From the landing near by, they could hear the neighing of Bruno's horses, which were there in charge of his grooms. And now, for the first time, Bruno felt a sense of shame in the presence of his servants. They, of course, knew everything, and how they must have talked about it in the tap-room. He was full of anger at the sister who had inflicted all this upon him.
The first information they received at the inn was that old Zenza had been there. She had endeavored to sell or to pawn the ring which the maid of honor had given her on the night before she had drowned herself. As they all regarded the ring as stolen, she could obtain nothing for it. It was now decided that Zenza must know more. They took a guide and walked along the mountain path that led toward her hut.
Bruno, being a huntsman, was usually a good climber, but to-day he felt as if he would break down at every step, and was often obliged to stop and rest.
His friend encouraged him, and they walked on through the sunny forest, where the light shone brightly on the soft moss, while many a hawk uttered its shrill cry overhead.
At the crossing of the roads, they encountered a party of ladies and gentlemen; they were in city dress and had adorned their hats with green branches and garlands. Bruno hurriedly stepped aside from the path. The intendant, however, was recognized by a former colleague of his, and Bruno heard him say that the guests of a little watering-place in the neighborhood were making an excursion to see the place where Countess Wildenort had drowned herself. The party passed on, and their loud and cheerful talk was heard from afar.
At last they reached the hut. It was closed. They knocked at the door. A growl was the only answer they received, and the next moment they heard some one dashing a bolt back.
A neglected looking, yet powerful man, with a wild, disheveled appearance, stood before them.
Thomas recognized Bruno at once, and exclaimed:
"Ah, Wildenort! it's well you've come. I take my hat off to you, for you're an out-and-out man. What matters one's father! When he's dying, ride off; one can't help him die, you know. Ho, ho! you're a splendid fellow. No one cares for the old lumber any more."
"What do you want of me?" asked Bruno, with tremulous voice.
"I shan't harm you; there's my hand on it. I'll do you no harm. You let the king do what he chooses and make no fuss about it, and so I shall do you no harm, for what you've done in the same line of business. You're my king. I got it out of her at the very last, that you were the one, and that, because it was you, she had helped your sister. You know what I mean, well enough. I shan't say a word. The stupid world needn't know what there is between us. Sister, king; poacher, count--it's all as it should be."
"This man seems crazed," said the intendant to the guide. "What do you want? Let go of the gentleman!" he called out to Thomas.
"Is that your lackey? Where's the one with the coal-black hair?--Let us alone," said Thomas, turning to the intendant, "we understand each other very well. Don't we, brother? You're a brother, and I'm one, too. Ha! the world's wisely arranged! You mustn't think I've been drinking; I've taken something, it's true, but that doesn't hurt me--I'm as sober as a judge. Now let me tell you what my plan is: I'll listen to reason, to anything that's fair and just; I can see that you're a decent fellow, for you come to me of your own accord."
"We wish to inquire whether you know anything of the lady in the blue riding-habit who was here?" said the intendant in the proper dialect.
"Ho, ho!" cried Thomas, "how finely he talks; but I can understand priest German, and judge's German, too. I've had enough to do with those people already. But you'd better not interfere"; and then, turning to Bruno, he added: "Let us two talk together, alone. Now listen, brother; this is what we'll do: You needn't make a count of me; all you need do is to give me servants and horses, and enough money and chamois and deer, and you'll soon see how clever and strong and hearty I am. Would you like to wrestle with me? or come out into the woods, and I'll show you that I can shoot better than you can. Now, all you need do is to give me either your sister's inheritance or my sister's, and you'll see we'll be a couple of merry brothers!"
Bruno hardly knew whether he was dreaming or awake. Some of the insolent fellow's words were clear enough to him, others he could not understand. He motioned the intendant to withdraw, and then said in a gentle voice:
"Thomas, I know you now; sit down."
Thomas seated himself on the bench, and, raising the brandy jug which he had bought with the money received for the hat, said:
"Won't you drink something?"
Bruno declining, Thomas took a long draught.
The intendant said to Bruno, in French, that there was no information to be obtained from that quarter, and that he had secretly charged the guide to hold fast to the wild fellow, so that, unmolested, they might return to the valley.
"What sort of gibberish is the simpleton talking, there?" cried Thomas, preparing to rush at the intendant. At the same moment, the guide threw himself on Thomas, and held him fast, while the two gentlemen left the hut and hurried down the mountain.
It was not until the guide again came up with them, that they paused, and Bruno ventured to draw a long breath. The guide now told them how Thomas had raged, and how he had called out for the gun which he had hidden in the wood, and that he had said he must shoot his brother-in-law.
"The best thing the fellow could do," said the guide, "would be to drink himself to death, so as to save himself from being hanged."
After some time, Bruno ventured to ask the intendant, in a whisper, whether they had not proceeded far enough with their investigation, and whether it was not best to return at once.
The intendant was silent. Bruno looked at him again with that bitter expression which might also pass for grief.
The intendant, who saw that Bruno was almost broken down, consented to return.