"And what shall we do to-morrow?" Sempaly would ask Zinka almost every evening when he met her, fresh and smiling, at some party; he had made it his task to help her to find her lost Rome and devoted himself to it with praiseworthy diligence.
The disappointment that she had experienced in her expedition under the guidance of thebottadriver to the ruins of the capital of the Caesars is a common enough phenomenon; it comes over almost everyone who sets out with his fancy crammed with the mystical cobwebs that recent literature has spun round the name of Rome, to see for the first time that dense mass of splendor and rubbish among the bare modern houses. And the disappointment is greatest in those who come from a long stay in Venice or Verona. Rome has none of the seductive charm of those North Italian cities. Its architecture is sombre and heavy, and the prevailing hues in winter are a sober grey and a dull bluish-green, more suggestive of a subtly toned tempera picture than of a glowing oil painting. It is vain to look for the sheen of the shimmering lagoons or the fantastic outline of the campaniles against the sky of Venice; for the half-ruined frescoes, or amber sunshine of Verona.
"After the cities of North Italy Rome has the effect of a severe choral by Handel after a nocturne by Chopin. The first impression is crushing," said Sempaly to Zinka; "but one wearies of the nocturne, and never of the choral."
To which Zinka replied: "But the choral is so drowned by trivial hurdy-gurdy tunes that I find it very difficult to follow." To which he laughed and said: "We will speak of that again in a fortnight."
By the end of the fortnight Zinka had thrown twosoldiinto the Fountain of Trevi to make sure that she should some day see Rome again, and in fanaticism for Rome she outdid even the fanatical General von Klinger. Sempaly had contributed mainly to her conversion. Nothing could be more amusing or more interesting than to explore every nook of the city of ruins under his escort. He was constantly remembering this or that wonderful thing that he must positively show to Zinka. An artistic bas-relief that had been built to some queer orange-colored house above a tobacconist's, or a heathen divinity which had had wings attached to its shoulders to qualify it for admission as an angel into a Christian church. He rode out with her into the Campagna, and pointed out all the most picturesque parts of the Trastevere, and he could find a ridiculous suggestion even in the most reverend things. The halls of the Vatican in which the liberal minded Vicars of Christ have granted a refuge to the pensioners of antiquity, he called the Poor-house of the gods; and always spoke of St. Peter's, which is commonly known asla Parocchia dei Forestieri, as the Papal Grand Hotel. There was not a fountain, a fragment of sculpture, or a picturesque heap of ruins of which he could not relate some history, comic or pathetic, or he invented one; but he never produced the impression that he was giving a lecture. He had in fact a particularly unpretending way of telling an appropriate and not too lengthy anecdote; he never handed it round on a waiter, as it were, for examination, but let it drop quietly out of his pocket. His knowledge of art was but shallow, but his feeling for it, like all his instincts, was amazingly keen. His information on all subjects was miscellaneous and slender, not an article of his intellectual wardrobe--as Charles Lamb has it--was whole; but he draped himself in the rags with audacious grace and made no attempt to hide the holes.
Truyn and his little daughter often joined them in these expeditions, and sometimes Cecil, but only when his mother did not choose to go out, and his demeanor on these occasions--'peripatetic æsthetics' he called their walks--was highly characteristic. He would walk by the side of his sister and Sempaly, or a few steps behind them, sunk in silence but always sharply observant. From time to time he would correct their cicerone in his dates, which Sempaly took with sublime indifference and for which--taking off his hat--he invariably thanked him with princely courtesy. Sterzl only sympathized with the classical style of the Renaissance; the real antiques which Zinka raved about he smiled at as caricatures; Guido on the other hand--for whom Sempaly had a weakness, as a Chopin among painters--Sterzl detested. He declared that the Beatrice Cenci had a cold wet bandage on her head, and that the picture was nothing more than a study apparently made from an idiot in a mad-house. When Zinka talked of her favorite antiques or other works in the mystical and sentimental slang of the clique, he laughed at her, but quite good-naturedly. He scorned all extravagance and raptures as cant and affectation. Still he was merciful to his sister, and when she turned from a Francia with tears in her eyes, or turned pale as she quoted Shelley, or spoke of Leonardo's Medusa in Florence, he did no more than shrug his shoulders and say: "Zinka, you are crazy," or gently pull her by the ear. Everything in Zinka was right, even her want of sound common sense.
The baroness had at last found a lodging, almost to her mind: a small palazzo in a side street, off the Corso, "furnished in atrocious taste, but otherwise very nice." The palazetto was in fact a gem in its way, with a simple and elegant stone front and a court surrounded by a colonnade with red camellia shrubs and a fountain in the midst. There were several much injured antique statues too, one of which was a famous and very beautiful Amazon at whose feet a rose-bush bloomed profusely. This Amazon struck Zinka as remarkably picturesque and she sketched her from every point of view without ever reading the warning in her sad face. Alas! Zinka had gazed at the sun and it had blinded her.
But how could Cecil allow this daily-growing intimacy between Sempaly and his sister? Sempaly's elder brother, Prince Sempaly, had been married ten years and was childless, so the attaché, as heir presumptive, was in duty bound to make a brilliant marriage. Did not Sterzl know this? Yes, he knew it, but he did not trouble his head about it. He was under no illusion as to the singularity, not to say the improbability of Sempaly marrying a girl of inferior birth; he had no desire that it should be otherwise. He was no democrat; on the contrary, his was a particularly conservative and old world nature, equally remote from cringing or from envy. That Sempaly should marry any other girl not his equal in rank would have struck him as altogether wrong, but Zinka--Zinka was different. He worshipped her as only a strong elder brother call worship a much younger weaker sister and there was no social elevation of which he deemed her unworthy. And when he saw Sempaly smile down so tenderly and at the same time so respectfully on his 'butterfly,' as he called her, he was rejoiced at her good fortune and never for an instant doubted it Zinka was not sentimental. For a long time there was no tinge of any feeling stronger than good fellowship in her intercourse with Sempaly; her talk was all fun, her glance saucy and wilful. By degrees, however, a change came over her; her whole manner softened, there was a gentle dreaminess even in her caprice and when she smiled it was often with tears in her eyes.
Sempaly was not regular in his visits to the palazetto; sometimes for two or three days he failed to appear, then he would call very early--at noon perhaps, join the family unceremoniously at their breakfast, go out driving with the ladies, accept an invitation to stay to dinner, and if Zinka was looking pale or out of spirits, he would pay her fifty kind little attentions to conjure a smile to her lips. Occasionally he would fall into the melancholy vein and talk of his loveless youth, and let her pity him for it. He would tell her about his elder brother, praising his many noble qualities, and then add with a shrug: "Yes, he is a splendid fellow, but ... he has ideas!" When Zinka asked what sort of ideas, Sempaly sighed: "I hope you may some day know him and then you can judge for yourself."
But this was in a low tone and he seemed to regret having said it. Then he would frequently allude to this or that picture in his brother's house at Vienna, or to some curious family relic, and say how much he should like some day to show it to Zinka. His favorite theme, however, was Erzburg, the old castle which for numberless generations had been the family summer-retreat of the Sempalys and of which he was passionately fond. Excepting as regards this estate he was singularly free from all false or family pride; he declared that his brother's Vienna palace was an unhealthy barrack, scouted at the Sempaly breed of horses, laughed at the Sempaly nose, and praised the traditional Sempaly tokay more in irony than in good faith--but then he came round to Erzburg again and simply raved about it Not about the oriental luxury with which part of the castle was fitted up--not in the best taste--of that he never spoke; indeed, he said more about its deficiencies than its perfections, but in a tone of such loving excuse! He talked of the large bare rooms where, for years, he had watched for the apparition of the white lady, half longing, half dreading to see her; of the doleful groaning of the weather-cock of therococostatues in the grounds, and of the gloomy pools with their low sad murmur, and their carpet of white waterlilies. The statues were bad, the pools unhealthy he admitted, and yet, as he said it, his usually mocking glance was soft and almost devout Once, when Zinka had grown quite dismal over his reminiscences, he took her hand and pressed it tenderly to his lips: "You must see Erzburg some day," he murmured.
His behavior to her was that of a man who is perfectly clear as to his own intentions but who for some reason is not immediately free to sue for the hand of a girl whom in his heart of hearts he already regards as his own. What did he mean by all this? What was he thinking of? I believe absolutely nothing. He went with the tide. There are many men like him, selfish, luxurious natures who swim with the stream of life and never attempt to steer; they have for the most part happy tempers, they are content with any harbor so long as they reach it without effort or damage, and if in their passive course they run down any one else they exclaim with their usual amiable politeness: "Oh! I beg your pardon!" and are quite satisfied that the mishap was due to fate and not to any fault of theirs.
It was in the end of February, shortly before the close of the carnival. Truyn, going to the Sterzls' with his little girl to take a walk with Zinka, saw at the door of the palazetto a hackney carriage with a small portmanteau on the top. Sterzl's man-servant, an elegant person with close-cut hair, shaved all but a short beard, and wearing an impressive watch-chain, was condescending to exchange a few words with the driver blinking in the sunshine.
The drawing-room into which Truyn and his daughter were admitted unannounced was in the full blaze of light. The motes danced their aimless rainbow-colored dance; in the middle of the room stood Zinka with both hands on a table over which she was bending to gaze at a magnificent basket of flowers. There was something in her attitude, quaint but graceful, in the elegant line of her bust, the pathetic joy of her radiant face, the soft flow of her plain long dress, which stamped the picture once and for ever on Truyn's memory. A sunbeam wantoned in her hair turning it to gold and her whole figure was the embodiment of sweet and happy spring delight The basket of flowers, too, was a masterpiece of its kind--acapriccioof lilies of the valley, gardenias, snow-flakes, and pale-tinted roses, that looked as though the wayward west-wind had blown them into company. Sterzl was standing by, with a pleased smile, and the baroness, in an attitude of affected astonishment, stood a little apart with a visiting-card in her hand. Neither Cecil nor his sister--she absorbed in the flowers and he in gazing at her--had heard Truyn arrive. When he knocked at the door the baroness said "come in," and gave him the tips of her fingers; then, with a wave of her hand towards the basket, she lisped out: "Did you ever see such extravagance!"
Zinka looked up and welcomed him and so did Sterzl. "It is perfect folly ... quite reckless...." sighed the baroness, "such a basket of flowers costs a fortune. Why, only one gardenia...."
Zinka's underlip pouted impatiently and Sterzl said in his dry way:
"My dear mother, do not destroy Zinka's illusions; the basket fell from heaven expressly for her and she does not want to believe that it was bought, just like any other, in the Via Condotti or Babuino. What do you say, Count? Sempaly sent it to her to console her for the departure of her brother. The reason is too absurd, do not you think? I do not believe you would miss me particularly for a few days, child?" and he put his hand affectionately under her chin.
"Where are you off to so suddenly?" asked Truyn very seriously.
"To Naples. Franz Arnsperg has telegraphed to me to ask me to meet him there; he is on his way to Paris from Constantinople, and he is a great friend of mine and has come by way of Naples on purpose that we may meet."
"The Arnsperg-Meiringens; you know their property adjoins ours," the baroness explained. Sterzl, who knew very well that Truyn was far better informed as to the Arnsperg-Meiringens than his mother, was annoyed and uncomfortable. However, he kissed her hand and then turned to his sister:
"God shield you, my darling butterfly--write me a few lines, or is that too much to ask?" Then he kissed her and whispered: "Mind you have not lost those bright eyes by the time I return."
Truyn accompanied him to the carriage with a very long face; he and General von Klinger had watched Sempaly's conduct with much disquietude, they knew him to be susceptible but not impressionable, alive to every new emotion; and Truyn would ere this have spoken to Sempaly on the subject if he had not been sure that it would merely provoke and irritate him without producing any good effect; the general, on the other hand, could not make up his mind to open Sterzl's eyes to the state of affairs because, like Baron Stockmar, he had an invincible dislike to interfering in matters that did not concern him. Like that famous man, not for worlds would he have committed an indiscretion to save a friend for whom he would have sacrificed his life; and this terror of being indiscreet is a form of cowardice which is considered meritorious in the fashionable world.
It is Shrove Tuesday. The sorriest jade of the wretchedestbottahas a paper rose stuck behind his ear, though during the hours sacred to the carnival they are pariahs and outcasts from the Corso. Two-horse carriages are dressed in garlands and the horses have plumes on their heads. The Piazza di Spagna is alive with pedlars and hawkers, selling flowers and little tapers (moccoli), and with buyers of every nation doing their best to cheapen them. Baskets full of violets, roses, anemones, snowflakes--baskets full of indescribable bunches of greenery--the ammunition of the mob which have already done duty for two or three days and are like nothing on earth but the wisps of rushes with which the boards are rubbed in some parts of Austria. The sellers of coral and tortoise-shell cry out to you to buy--"e carnevale...." and in the side streets--for misery dares not show its head in the main thoroughfares to-day--the beggars crowd more closely than ever round the pedestrian with their perpetual cry: "muojo di fame."
The houses on the Corso wear their gay carnival trappings to-day for the last time. A smart dress flutters on every balcony, several stands have been erected and all the window-sills are covered, some with colored chintz and some with gold brocade. All Thursday, Saturday, and Monday Zinka and Gabrielle had driven unweariedly up and down the Corso with Count Truyn, flinging flowers at all their acquaintances and at a good many strangers. To-day, however, they had agreed to look on from the windows of the Palazzo Vulpini, for the close of the carnival is apt to be somewhat riotous. Every one who lives on the Corso seizes the opportunity of paying long owing debts of civility and offers a place in a window to as many friends as can possibly be squeezed in.
There was a large party at the Vulpinis', for the most part Italians and relations of the prince's. Madame de Gandry and Mrs. Ferguson had invited themselves, and Zinka, with Gabrielle Truyn, was to see the turmoil in the Corso from the balcony of the palazzo. The baroness had "tic douloureux" which kept her at home,--and which no one regretted. At six o'clock, before the beginning of themoccoli, all the company were to go to the 'Falcone,' a well-known and especially Roman restaurant where they would dine more comfortably and easily than at home. From thence they were to adjourn to theTeatro Costanzi. Prince Vulpini had drawn up this thoroughly carnival programme for the special benefit of the Countess Schalingen who had a passion for "local color," and who was enchanted. The princess was resigned; local color had no interest for her and she was somewhat prejudiced against Italian native dishes and masked festivities of all kinds.
It was three o'clock. Baskets of flowers and whole heaps of sweet little sugar-plum boxes were ready piled in the windows for ammunition. The little Vulpinis, who entirely filled the large centre window, and their shy English governess in her black gown, had just come into the room, skipping about and pulling each other's hair for sheer impatience and excitement; and when their governess reproved them for behaving so roughly "ma è carnevale" is thought sufficient excuse; the company laughed and the English girl said no more. All the party had assembled. Madame de Gandry and Mrs. Ferguson were both looking pretty and picturesque; the former had stuck on a fez, and the other a quaintly-folded handkerchief of oriental stuff, in honor of the carnival, when eccentricity of costume is admissible and conventional head-gear are contemned.
From the windows down to the carriages, from the carriages up to the windows the war was eagerly waged; bunches of flowers, and bonbonnières from Spillman's and Nazzari's fly in all directions and scraps of colored paper fall like snow through the air. Then the blare and pipe of a military band came up from the Piazza di Venezia and the maskers crowded in among the carriages. One of the liveliest groups along the Corso was certainly that where the Vulpini children were grouped, with Zinka in their midst, she having undertaken the charge of them at their own earnest entreaty. She and Gabrielle were both laughing with glee, but at the height of their fun they remembered to pay all sorts of little civilities to the half-scared English governess and had stuck a splendid bunch of lilies of the valley in front of her camphor-scented black silk dress. What especially interested the children was watching for Norina's carriage, for they not only recognized the prince who was driving, but knew all his party: Truyn, Siegburg, Sempaly, and as it passed with its four bays the little Vulpinis jumped with delight and chirped and piped like a tree full of birds; the gentlemen waved their hands, smiled, and gallantly aimed bouquets without end at the windows of the palazzo. But all the finest flowers that day were, beyond a doubt, aimed at Zinka. The floor all round her was heaped with snowflakes, and violets, and roses. In her hand she had caught a huge bunch of roses flung up to her by Sempaly.
"Oh, oh!" cried Madame de Gandry, retiring from the window to rest for a few minutes and refresh herself with a sip of wine. "Ah, mademoiselle!" glancing enviously at the mass of blossoms strewn round Zinka, "you have as many bouquets as a prima donna!" Zinka nodded; then, contemplating her hat, which she had thrown off in her excitement, with a whimsical air of regret and pulling the feather straight she said with a mockery of repentance:
"My poor hat will be glad to rest on Ash Wednesday."
"It is perfect, Marie, really perfect, this Roman carnival--a thing never to be forgotten!" exclaimed the Countess Schalingen, coming in from the window. She was a genuine Austrian, always ready to go into ecstasies of enthusiasm.
"It is horrid," answered the princess impatiently. "Under the new government it is nothing but an amusement for the strangers and street boys."
TheBarberihave rushed past, and the procession has once more begun to move on but its interest and excitement are over; the crowd in the road begins to thin, and Sempaly, Truyn, Norina, Siegburg, and the general have come in, as agreed, to escort the ladies to the 'Falcone,' The children have all been kissed and sent off to their dinner at home; Gabrielle somewhat ill-pleased at not being allowed to go with the elder party and Truyn himself not liking to part with his little companion. Zinka wishes to comfort Gabrielle by remaining with the little ones, but this was not to be heard of.
"Only too many of us would wish to follow your example," whispers Princess Vulpini, to whom this dinner at a Roman restaurant is detestable.
They are to go on foot, but they are so long getting ready after this little delay that the one peaceful half-hour before themoccoliis lost; by the time they sally into the street the crowd, which had dispersed, is getting denser every minute. The darkness comes on rapidly, like a grey curtain let down suddenly from the skies; the gaudy hangings are being taken in from the windows lest they should catch fire; the carnival is putting on its ball-dress. Now the first twinkling tapers are seen here and there, like glow-worms in the dusk, and are instantly pelted withmazettiand bunches of greenery, mostly picked up from the pavement "Fuori! fuori!" is the monotonous cry on every side, and presently: "senza moccolo, vergogna!"--the death cries of the carnival.
The Austrian gentlemen find their position anything rather than pleasant, for it is impossible to protect the ladies effectually against being jostled and pushed, still less against hearing much rough jesting. At last they are out of the Corso and have divided in the narrow streets; some having turned into the Via Maddalena, while others have crossed the Piazza Capranica to the Piazza della Rotunda; but at last they are all met after various small adventures at the 'Falcone.' The ladies' toilets have suffered a little and Princess Vulpini looks very unhappy.
The 'Falcone' is a very unpretending restaurant where the waiters wear white jackets; the tariff is moderate and therisottocelebrated. Vulpini orders a thoroughly Italian dinner in an upper room.
Suddenly Truyn exclaims in dismay: "What has become of Zinka and Sempaly?"
"They have lingered talking on the way," says Madame de Gandry with pinched lips as she leans back in her chair and pulls off her gloves. "People always walk slowly when they have so much to say to each other."
Truyn frowned. "I am afraid they have got entangled in the crowd and have not been able to make their way out. I have hated this expedition from the first. I cannot imagine, Marie, what could have put such a plan into your head...."
"Mine!" says his sister in an undertone and with a meaning glance. But she says no more. He knows perfectly well that she is as innocent of the scheme as the angels in heaven.
"Why, what on earth is the matter?" asks Vulpini pouring huge quantities of grated cheese into his soup, while Mrs. Ferguson complains that she is dying of hunger, which is singular, considering the enormous number of bonbons she has eaten in the course of the day. Madame de Gandry asks for a series of French dishes which the 'Falcone' has never heard of Countess Schalingen is loud in her praises of the Italian cookery and is only sorry that she has no appetite.
Truyn and the general sat gazing at the door in growing anxiety; Zinka and Sempaly do not make their appearance--Truyn can hardly conceal his alarm.
"I certainly cannot understand what you are so uneasy about," says Madame de Gandry with a perfidious smile; "if Fräulein Zinka has been mobbed and hindered Sempaly is in the same predicament and will take good care of her. If she were with any one less trustworthy, less competent, with whom she was less intimate ... then I could understand...." Truyn passes his hand over his grey hair in extreme perplexity and mutters in his mother tongue: "This woman will be the death of me!" and then he again blames his sister.
Yet another quarter of an hour; though the waiters are not nimble they have got to the dessert and still no signs of Sempaly and Zinka.
"I am beginning to feel very anxious," says Marie. "I only hope the child has not fainted in the crowd."
Madame de Gandry makes a meaning grimace. "It is perhaps the cleverest thing she could have done," she says. Truyn hears and bites his lip.
The door just now opens and Zinka and Sempaly come in; she calm and sweet, he dark and scowling.
"Thank God!" cries Truyn.
"What in the world has happened?" asks the princess, while Truyn draws a chair to the table for Zinka, next to himself. "What has happened?" repeated Sempaly. "The most obvious thing in the world. We got into the thick of the mob and could not get through."
"I cannot understand how that should have occurred," says Madame de Gandry. "We all came through."
"You may perhaps recollect that we were the last of the party, countess; we had hardly gone twenty yards when the crowd had become a compact mass, we pressed on, determined to get through at any cost--alone I could have managed it--but with a lady--suddenly we were in the thick of a furious squabble--curses, blows, and knives. I cannot tell you how miserable I was at finding myself out in the street with a lady--a young girl...."
"Fräulein Sterzl seems to take it all much more coolly than you do. Count Sempaly," interposes Madame de Gandry spitefully; "she does not appear to have been at all terrified by the adventure."
"Fräulein Zinka was very brave," replied Sempaly.
"Goodness me! what was there to be afraid of;" says Zinka with the simplicity of childish innocence. "The responsibility was Count Sempaly's not mine."
The French woman laughs sharply. "We must be moving now," she says, "if we mean to go to Costanzi's," and there is a clatter of chairs and a little scene of confusion in which no one can find the right shawl or wrap for each lady.
But Princess Vulpini makes no attempt to move: "I am going nowhere else this evening," she says with unwonted determination. "I will not take Zinka to Constanzi's. I will wait till she has eaten her beef-steak and then I will take her home. I hope you will all enjoy yourselves."
Zinka eats her beef-steak with the greatest calmness and an unmistakably good appetite; she is perfectly sweet and docile and natural; she has no suspicion that her name will to-morrow morning be in every mouth. Truyn is as pale as death; he has heard Madame de Gandry's whisper to her friend: "After this he must make her an offer."
"I am glad to have found you," cried Truyn next morning as he entered Sempaly's room in the Palazzo di Venezia, and discovered him sipping his coffee after his late breakfast, with a book in his hand.
"I am delighted that you should for once have taken the trouble to climb up to me. I must show you my Francia--the dealer who sold it to me declares it is a Francia. But you look worried. What has brought you here?"
"I only wanted to know--to ask you whether you will drive out to Frascati with us to-day?"
"To Frascati!--This afternoon? What an idea!" exclaimed Sempaly; "and in any case I cannot join you for I am going to the Palatine at three o'clock with the Sterzls."
"Yes?" said Truyn looking uncommonly grave.
"May I offer you a cup of coffee?" asked Sempaly coolly.
"No thank you," replied Truyn shortly. He was evidently uneasy, and began examining the odds and ends at the table to give himself countenance; by accident he took up the book that Sempaly had been reading when he came in. It was Charles Lamb's Essays, and on the first page was written in a large, firm hand: "In friendly remembrance of a terrible quarrel, Zinka Sterzl."
"The child lost a bet with me not long since," Sempaly explained. "Another bet is still unsettled and is to be decided to-day at the Palatine." Truyn shut the book sharply and threw it down; then, setting his elbows on the table at which they were sitting, and fixing his eyes keenly on Sempaly's face he said:
"Do you intend to marry Zinka Sterzl?"
Sempaly started, "What do you mean?" he exclaimed; "what are you dreaming of?" But as Truyn said no more, simply gazing fixedly at him, he took up an attitude of defiance. He looked Truyn straight in the face with an angry glare and retorted:
"And suppose I do?"
"Then I can only hope you will have enough resolution to carry out your intentions," said Truyn, "for to stop half-way in such a case is a crime."
He drew a deep breath and looked at the ground. But Sempaly's face, instead of clearing, grew darker; he was prepared for vehement opposition and his cousin's calm consent, not to say encouragement, put him in the position of a man who, after straining every muscle to lift a heavy weight suddenly discovers that it is a piece of painted pasteboard. It completely threw him off his balance.
"Well, I must say!" he began in a tone of extreme annoyance, "you speak of it as if it were a no more serious question than the dancing of a cotillon. In plain terms the thing is impossible. What are we to live on? I have long since run through all my fortune, if I took what my brother would regard as so monstrous a step he would cut off all supplies, and Zinka is not of age. I might to be sure take to selling dripping to maintain my wife, which would have the additional advantage that my mother-in-law would cut me in consequence. Or perhaps you would advise me to let Dame Clotilde Sterzl keep us till Zinka comes into her money?"
"Well," says Truyn calmly, "if you can take such a reasonable view of the impossibility of your marriage with Zinka Sterzl, your behavior to her is perfectly inexplicable."
Truyn was still sitting by the little table on which the pretty coffee service was set out, while Sempaly, his hands in his pockets, was walking up and down the room, kicking and shoving the furniture with all the irritation of a man who knows himself to be in the wrong.
"Upon my soul I cannot make out what you would be at!" he suddenly exclaimed, standing still and facing his cousin. "Sterzl has never found any fault with my behavior and it is much more his affair than yours."
Truyn changed color a little, but did not lose his presence of mind.
"Sterzl, with all his dryness of manner, is an idealist," he said, "who would fetch the stars from heaven for his sister if he could. He has never for an instant doubted that your intentions with regard to her were quite serious."
"That is impossible!" cried Sempaly.
"But it is so," Truyn asserted. "He is too blind to think his sister beneath any one's notice."
"And he is right!" exclaimed Sempaly, "perfectly right--but the pressure of circumstances--of position--the duties I have inherited...."
He had seated himself on the deep inner ledge of one of the windows, with his elbows on his knees and his chin between his hands, and was staring thoughtfully at the floor.
"Allow me to ask you," he said, "what induced you to mix yourself up in the affair?"
"It has weighed on my mind for a long time," said Truyn, "but what especially moved me to speak of it to-day is the circumstance that last evening, before you came into the 'Falcone,' Mesdames De Gandry and Ferguson allowed themselves to speak in a way which convinced me that your constant intimacy with Zinka is beginning to do her no good."
"Oh! of course, if you listen to the gossip of every washerwoman," Sempaly interrupted angrily. And he muttered a long speech in which the words: 'Sacred responsibility--due regard for the duties imposed by Providence,' were freely thrown in. Truyn's handsome face flushed with contempt and at length he broke into his cousin's harangue, to which for a few minutes he had listened in silence:
"No swagger nor bluster.... The matter is quiet simple: Do you love Zinka?" The attaché frowned:
"Yes," he said fiercely.
"Then it is only that you have not the courage to face the annoyances that a marriage with her would involve you in?"
Sempaly was dumb,
"Then, my dear fellow, there is no choice; you must break off the intimacy, as gently but as immediately as possible."
"That I neither can nor will attempt," cried Sempaly, stamping his foot.
"If within three days you have not taken the necessary steps to secure your removal from Rome, I shall feel myself compelled to give Sterzl a hint--or your brother--whichever you prefer." Truyn spoke quite firmly. "And now good-bye."
"Good-bye," said Sempaly without moving, and Truyn went to the door; there he paused and said hesitatingly: "Do not take it amiss, Nicki--I could do no less. Remember that though the right is a bitter morsel, it has a good after-taste."
"Poor child, poor sweet little girl!" Truyn murmured to himself as he descended the grey stone stairs of the Palazzo de Venezia. "Is this a time to be talking of inherited responsibilities and the duties of position--now! Good heavens!" He lighted a cigar and then flung it angrily away. "Good heavens! to have met a girl like Zinka--to have won her love--and to be free!..."
He hurried out into the street, leaving the gate-porter astonished that the count, who was usually so courteous, should have taken no notice of his respectful bow; such a thing had never happened before.
He was a strange man, this grey-haired young Count Truyn; he had grown up as one of a very happy family and when still quite young he had been hurried, much against his will, into a marriage with the handsome Gabrielle Zinsenburg. He had never been able to reconcile himself to the empty wordliness of his life in her society; she was a heartless, superficial woman, some few years older than himself, who had staked everything on her hope of achieving a marriage with him. Within a few years they had separated, quite amiably, by mutual consent; he had given her his name and she gave him his child. His life was spoilt. He had a noble and a loving heart but he might not bestow it on any woman; he must carry it about in his breast where it grew heavy to bear. His love for his little girl, devoted as he was to her, was not enough to live by, and a bitter sense of craving lurked in his spirit. For many years he had lived a great deal abroad; his mind had expanded and he had shed several of his purely Austrian prejudices. At home he was still regarded as a staunch conservative because he always passively voted on that side; but he was only indifferent, absolutely indifferent, to all political strife, and smiled alike at the recklessness of the 'left' and the excitability of the 'right,' while in his inmost soul he regarded the perfecting of government as mere labor lost; for he was no optimist, and thought that to heal the woes of humanity nothing would avail but its thorough regeneration, and that men have no mind for such regeneration; all they ask is to be allowed to cry out when they are hurt, and shift their sins on to each other's shoulders.
It afforded him no satisfaction to cry out. His weary soul found no rest but in unbounded benevolence, and Sempaly's nature--experimental, groping his way through life--had seemed to him to-day more odious than ever.
"How can a man be at once so tender and such a coward?" he asked himself, "He is the most completely selfish being I ever met with--a thorough epicurean in sentiment, and has only just heart enough for his own pleasure and enjoyment."
The bet outstanding between Zinka and Sempaly was not decided that afternoon. Sempaly did not go to the Palatine, but excused himself at the last moment in a little note to Zinka. Truyn's words, though he would not have admitted it to himself, had made a very deep impression, and though he fought against it he could no longer avoid looking the situation in the face. To get himself transferred to some other capital, to give up all his pleasant idle habits here--the idea was intolerable! He felt exactly like a man who has been suddenly roused from a slumber bright with pleasant dreams. He did not want to wake, or to rub his eyes clear of the vision.
Was everything at an end then? Truyn had, to be sure, suggested an alternative: if he could but call up sufficient energy it rested only with himself to turn the sweet dream into a still sweeter and lovelier reality, and his whole being thrilled with ecstasy as this delightful possibility flattered his fancy. He was long past the age at which a man commits some matrimonial folly believing that he can reclaim the morals of some disrespectable second-rate actress, or that his highest happiness is to devote his life to his sister's governess who is a dozen years older than himself; when he contemplated the possibility of his marrying Zinka Sterzl after all, it was with the certainty that his feeling for her was not a mere transient madness, but that it had its roots in the depths of his nature. Every form and kind of enjoyment had been at his command and he had hated them all. Things in which other men of his age and position could find excitement and interest roused his fastidious nature to disgust. Life had long since become to him a vain and empty show, when he had met Zinka.... Then all the sweetest spirits of spring had descended fluttering into his vacant heart; a magical touch had made it a garden of flowers and filled it with fair, mad dreams of love. All the "sweet sorrow" of life was revealed to him in a new form ... And now was he to tread the blossoms into dust? "Give up seeing her--get myself sent away--never! I cannot and I will not do it," he muttered to himself indignantly as he thought it all over. "What business is it of Truyn's? What right has he to issue his orders to me?"
But when he had resolved simply to go on with Zinka as he had begun, to sun himself as heretofore in her smile, her gentleness, and her beauty, he was still uncomfortable. He felt that it would not be the same. Till now his heart had simply been content, now it could speak and ask for more; to try to satisfy it with this shadow of delight was like attempting to slake a raging thirst with the dew off a rosebud. He loved her now--suddenly and madly. Interesting women had hitherto utterly failed to interest him; they were like brooklets filled by the rain: the muddiness of the water prevented their shallowness being immediately perceptible; the storms of life had spoilt their clearness and purity; Zinka, on the contrary, was like a mountain lake whose waters are so transparent that near the shore every pebble is visible; and though, in the middle, the bottom is no longer seen, it is because they are deep and not because they are turbid, till their crystalline opacity reflects the sky overhead. And in the depths of that lake, he thought, lay a treasure which one alone, guided and blest by God, might hope to find. How he longed to sound it.
She was made for him; never for an instant had he been dull in her society; she satisfied both his head and his heart; all the bewitching inconsistency and contradictions of her nature captivated him; he had said of her that "she was like a little handbook to the study of women," she was made up of such a variety of characteristics. In the midst of her childlike moods she had such unexpected depth of thought, such flashes of wisdom; her wildest vagaries were so original and often ended so suddenly in wistful reverie; her little selfish caprices were the converse of such devoted self-sacrifice; her grace was so spontaneous, her voice so soft and appealing ... Well, but should he?... No, it must not be. Truyn had said it--he must quit Rome--the sooner the better.
He took his hat and went out to call on the ambassador and discuss the matter with him. His excellency was not at home and Sempaly betook himself to the club, where he lost several games at ecarté--he was greatly annoyed. Then he went home and sat looking constantly at the clock as though he were expecting some one; his irritation increased every minute.
"Bright May--the sweetest month of Spring; The trees and fields with flowers are strown-- Dear Heart, to thee Life's May I bring; Take it and keep it for thine own-- Nay--draw the knife!--I will not start, Pierce if thou wilt, my willing breast. There thou shalt find my faithful heart Whose truth in death shall stand confessed."
These words, sung in the Roman dialect to a very simple air, came quavering out of the open window of the drawing-room of the Sterzls' palazetto as Sempaly passed by it that evening; he had gone out to pay some visits, to divert his mind, and though his way did not take him along the side street in which the palazetto stood, he had not been able to resist the temptation to make a detour. It was a mild evening and the tones floated down like an invitation; he recognized Zinka's voice as she sang one of the melancholyStornelliin which the peasants of the Campagna give utterance to their loves. It ceased, and he was just moving away, when another even sweeter and more piercing lament broke the warm silence.
"Or shall I die?--Poison itself could haveNo terrors if I took it from thy hand.Thy heart should be my death-bed and my grave."
"Or shall I die?--Poison itself could haveNo terrors if I took it from thy hand.Thy heart should be my death-bed and my grave."
The passionate words were sung with subdued vehemence to a rather monotonous tune--like a faded wreath of spring flowers borne along by some murmuring stream. He turned back, and listened with suspended breath. The song ended on a long, full note; he felt that he would give God knows how much to hear the last line once more:
'La sepoltura mia sara il tuo seno!....'
Now Zinka was speaking--it vexed him beyond measure that he could not hear what she was saying. It was maddening ... Good heavens! what a fool he was to stand fretting outside!
When he went into the drawing-room to his great surprise he was met by Sterzl.
"Back so soon?" he exclaimed as he shook hands with him.
"Yes, Arnstein had only two days to spare in Naples," replied Sterzl; "I was delighted to see him again, but--well, I must be growing very old, I was so glad to find myself at home again," and he drew his sister to him and lightly stroked her pretty brown hair. His brotherly caress added to Sempaly's excitement "No wonder that you like your home!" he was saying, when the baroness appeared with an evening wrap on her shoulders, a fan and scent-bottle in her hand, and, as usual, dying of refinement and airs.
"Not ready yet, Zenaïde? Ah, my dear Sempaly, how very sweet of you!" and she gave him the tips of her fingers.--"We were quite anxious about you when you so suddenly excused yourself from joining us. Zinka was afraid you had taken the Roman fever," she said sentimentally.
"Zinka has an imagination that feeds on horrors," said Sterzl smiling.
"I did think that you must have some very urgent reason," said Zinka hastily and in some confusion.
Sempaly looked into her eyes: "I was doing Ash-Wednesday penance, that was all," he said in a low voice.
"Well, to complete the mortification come now to Lady Dalrymple's," the baroness suggested.
"Oh, be merciful! Grant me a dispensation. I should so much enjoy a quiet evening," cried Sempaly.
"And I too," added Zinka. "I am utterly sick of soirées and routs. These performances give me the impression of a full-dress review, at which such and such fashionable regiments are paraded."
"Give us a holiday, mother; remember, it is Ash-Wednesday, and we are good Catholics," said her son.
"I had some scruples myself, but the Duchess of Otranto is going," lisped the baroness.
However, when Sempaly had assured her that the Duchess of Otranto was by no means a standard authority in Roman society she yielded to the common desire that they should remain at home, and withdrew to her room to write some letters before tea.
Most men have senses and nerves only in their brain while women, as is well known, have them all over the body; in this respect Sempaly was like a woman. He had senses even in his finger tips--as a Frenchman had once said, of him: "il avait les sens poète!" (a poet's nerves). The most trifling external conditions gave him disproportionate pleasure or pain. The smallest detail of ugliness was enough to spoil his appreciation of the noblest and grandest work of art; he would not have felt the beauty of Faust if he had first read it in a shabby or dirty copy. Now, when the baroness had left the room, there was no detail that could disturb his enjoyment in being with Zinka.
Sterzl had taken up his newspaper; Zinka, at Sempaly's request, had seated herself at the piano. She always accompanied herself by heart and sat with her head bowed a little over the keys and half-shut dreamy eyes. The sober tone of the room, with its tapestried walls and happy medley of knick-knacks, broad-leaved plants, Japanese screens, and comfortable furniture, formed a harmonious background to her slight, white figure. The light of the one lamp was moderated by its rose-colored shade; a subduedmezza-vocetone of color prevailed in the room which was full of the scent of roses and violets, and the heavy perfume seemed in sympathy with the gloomy sentiment of the popular love songs. Sempaly's whole nature thrilled with rapturous suspense, such as few men would perhaps quite understand. At his desire Zinka sang one after another of theStornelli... her voice grew fuller and deeper ...
"Do not sing too long, Zini, it will tire you," said her brother.
"Only one more--the one I heard from outside," begged Sempaly, and she sang:
"La sepoltura mia sara il tuo seno...."
The words trembled on her lips; her hands slipped off the last notes into her lap. Sempaly took the warm, soft little hands in his own; a sort of delightful giddiness mounted to his brain as he touched them.
"Zinka," he said, "tell me, do you feel a little of what your voice expresses?"
Her eyes met his--and she blinked, as we blink at a strong, bright light; she shrank back a little, as we shrink from too great and sudden joy. Her answer was fluttering on her lips when the door opened--the Italian servant pronounced some perfectly unintelligible gibberish by way of a name, and in marched--followed by her daughter and their Polish swain--the Baroness Wolnitzka.
"Oh, thank goodness, I have found you at home!" she exclaimed. "We counted on finding you at home on Ash-Wednesday. God bless you, Zinka!"
Zinka was petrified. Mamma Sterzl rushed in from an adjoining room at the sound of those rough tones.
"Charlotte!" was all she could stammer out, "Char--lotte ... you ... here!"
"Quite a surprise, is it not, Clotilde? Yes, the most unhoped-for things sometimes happen. We arrived to-day at three o'clock and called here this afternoon but you were out; so then we decided to try in the evening. It is rather late, to be sure, and I, for my part, should have been here long ago, but Slawa insisted on dressing--for such near relations! Quite absurd ... but I do not like to contradict her, she is so easily put out--so I waited to dress too."
And the baroness, after embracing her sister and her niece, plumped down uninvited on a very low chair.
She had dressed with a vengeance: a black lace cap was perched on the top of her short, grey hair, with lappets that hung down over her ears. Her massive person was squeezed into a violet satin gown, which she had evidently out-grown, and a lace scarf picturesquely thrown over her shoulders was intended to conceal its defects; her lavender-colored gloves were very short and much too tight, and burst at all the button-holes. Slawa had a general effect of tricolor, and she wore some old jewelry that she had bought of a dealer in antiquities at Verona. She had curled and piled up her hair after the antique and kept her head constantly turned over her left shoulder, to be as much like the Apollo as possible, at the same time making a grimace as if she were being photographed and wished to look bewitching.
Vladimir Matuschowsky's tall, slouching figure was buttoned into a braided coat; he held a low-crowned hat with tassels in his hand, and glared at the plain dress-coats of the other two men as though they were a personal insult.
"Monsieur Vladimir de Matuschowsky," said the baroness introducing him, "a ... a ... friend of the family." But she said it in French: when the Baroness Wolnitzka was at all at a loss she commonly spoke French.
Her sister, who by this time had got over her astonishment, now began to wish to dazzle the new-comers.
"Count Sempaly," she said, presenting the attaché; "a friend of our family ... my sister, the Baroness Wolnitzka. You have no doubt heard of the famous Slav leader Baron Wolnitzky, who was so conspicuous a figure in forty-eight."
Sempaly bowed without speaking; Baroness Wolnitzka rose and politely offered him her hand: "I am delighted to make your acquaintance," she said. "I have heard a great deal about you; my sister has mentioned you in all her letters and I am quiteau courant."
Again Sempaly bowed in silence and then, retiring into the background while the mistress of the house turned to address Slawa, he said to Sterzl:
"I will take an opportunity of slipping away--a stranger is always an intruder at a family meeting," His manner was suddenly cold and stiff and his tone intolerably arrogant.
Sterzl nodded: "Go by all means," he replied. But Baroness Sterzl perceiving his purpose exclaimed:
"No, no, my dear Sempaly, you really must not run away--you are not in the leastde trop--and a stranger you certainly can never be."
"It would look as though we had frightened you away, and that I will not imagine," added her sister archly.
So Sempaly stayed; only, perhaps, from the impulse that so often prompts us to drink a bitter cup to the dregs.
"Pray command yourself a little, Zini," whispered Cecil to his sister. "The interruption is unpleasant; but you should not show your annoyance so plainly."
Tea was now brought in; Sterzl devoted himself in an exemplary manner to his cousin Slawa, so as to give his spoilt little sister as much liberty as possible. Slawa treated him with the greatest condescension and kept glancing over her huge Japanese fan at Sempaly, who was sitting by Zinka on a small sofa, taciturn and ill-pleased, while he helped her to pour out the tea.
Baroness Wolnitzka gulped down one cup after another, eat up almost all the tea-cake, and never ceased an endless medley of chatter. The young Pole sat brooding gloomily, ostentatiously refused all food and spoke not a word; his arms crossed on his breast he sat the image of the Dignity of Man on the defensive.
"I am desperately hungry," Madame Wolnitzka confessed. "We are at a very good hotel--Hotel della Stella, in Via della Pace; we were told of it by a priest with whom we met on our journey. It is not absolutely first-class--still, only people of the highest rank frequent it; two Polish counts dined at the table d'hôte and a French marquise;--in her case I must own I thought I could smell a rat--I suspect she is running away with her lover from her husband, or from her creditors."
Out of deference to the "highest rank" the baroness had put her hand up to her mouth on the side nearest to the young people as she made this edifying communication. "The dinner was very good," she went on, "capital, and we pay six francs a day for our board."
"Seven," corrected Slawa.
"Six, Slawa."
"Seven, mamma."
And a discussion of the deepest interest to the rest of the party ensued between the mother and daughter as to this important point. Slawa remained master of the field; "and with wax-lights and service it comes to eight," she added triumphantly.
"I let her talk," whispered her mother, again directing her words with her hand, "she is very peculiar in that way; everything cheap she thinks must be bad. However, what I was going to say was that, to tell the truth, I did not get enough to eat at dinner--there were flowers on the table,"--and she reached herself a slice of plum-cake.
At this moment the door opened to admit Count Siegburg.
"Good evening," he began--"seeing you so brightly lighted up I could not resist the temptation to come in and see how you were spending your Ash-Wednesday."
He glanced around at the three strangers and instantly grasped the situation; but, far from taking the tragical view of it, he at once determined to get as much fun out of it as possible. After being introduced he placed himself in a position from which he could command the whole party, Sempaly included, and converse both with Madame Wolnitzka and her daughter. He addressed himself first to the latter.
"The name of Wolnitzky is known to fame," he said.
"Yes, my father played a distinguished part in forty-eight," replied Slawa.
"Siegburg--Siegburg?..." Madame Wolnitzka was meanwhile murmuring to herself. "Which of the Siegburgs? The Siegburgs of Budow, or of Waldau, or ...?"
"The Waldau branch," said Baroness Sterzl. "His mother was a Princess Hag," and she leaned back on her cushions.
"Ah! the Waldau Siegburgs! quite the best Siegburgs!" remarked her sister in a tone of astonishment.
"Of course," replied Baroness Sterzl with great coolness, as though she had never in her life spoken to anyone less than "the best Siegburgs."
Madame Wolnitzka arranged her broad face in the most affable wrinkles she could command, and sat smiling at the young count, watching for an opportunity of putting in a word. For the present, however, this did not offer, for her sister addressed her, asking, in a bitter-sweet voice:
"And what made you decide on coming to Rome?"
"Can you ask? I have wished for years to see Rome, and you wrote so kindly and so constantly, Clotilde--so at length ..." and here followed the history of the Bernini. "You remember our Bernini, Clotilde?"
Her sister nodded.
"Well, I had the Apollo, the head only, a copy by Bernini. It is a work of art that has been in our family for generations," she continued, turning to Siegburg as she saw that he was listening to her narrative.
"For centuries," added Madame Sterzl.
"I must confess that I could hardly bear to part with it," her sister went on. "However, I made up my mind to do so when Tulpe, the great antiquary from Vienna, came one day and bid for it."
Sterzl, to whom the god's wanderings were known, made some allusion to them in his dry way; on which the Baroness Wolnitzka shuffled herself a little nearer to Siegburg and addressed herself to him.
"You see, count, it was something like what often happens with a girl: you drag her about to balls for years, take her from one watering-place to another, and never get her off your hands; then you settle down quietly at home and suddenly, when you least expect it, a suitor turns up. I could hardly bear to see the last of the bust I assure you."
"It must indeed have been a harrowing parting," said Siegburg with much feeling.
"Terrible!" said the baroness, "and doubly painful because"--and here she leaned over to whisper in Siegburg's ear--"Slawa is so amazingly like the Bernini. Does not her likeness to the Apollo strike you?"
"I saw it at once--as soon as I came in," Siegburg declared without hesitation.
"Every one says so--well then, you can understand what a sacrifice it was ... it cuts me to the heart only to think of it. Oh! these great emotions! Excuse me if I take off my cap ..." and she hastily snatched off the black lace structure and passing her fingers through her thin grey hair with the vehemence of a genius she exclaimed: "Merciful God! How we poor women are ill-used! crushed, fettered ..."
"Yes, a woman's lot is not a happy one;" said Siegburg sympathetically.
"You are quite an original!" exclaimed her sister, giggling rather uncomfortably--for in good society it is quite understood that when we are suffering under relations devoid of manners, and whom, if we dared, we should shut up at once in a mad-house, we may do what we can to render them harmless by ticketing them with this title--"Quite an original. Are you still always ready to break a lance for the emancipation of our sex?"
"No," replied Madame Wolnitzka, "no, my dear Clotilde, I have given that up. Since I learnt by experience that every woman is ready to set aside the idea of emancipation as soon as she has a chance of marrying I have lost my sympathy with the cause."
"The emancipation of women of course can only be interesting to those who cannot marry," observed Sterzl, who had not long since read an article on this much ventilated question.
"And as there are undoubtedly more women than men in the world, legalized polygamy is the only solution of the difficulty," his aunt asserted.
"Mamma! you really are!..." said Slawa with an angry flare.
"Your views are necessarily petty and narrow," retorted her mother. "If I were speaking of the subject in a light and frivolous tone I could understand your indignation; but I am looking at the matter from a philosophical point of view--you understand me, I am sure, Count Siegburg."
"Perfectly, my dear madam," Siegburg assured her with grave dignity. "You look at the question from the point of national and political economy and from that point of view improprieties have no existence."
Sempaly sat twirling his moustache; Zinka first blushed and then turned pale, while the mistress of the house patted her sister on the shoulder, saying with a sharp, awkward laugh: "Quite an original--quite an original."
But Sterzl, seeing that Siegburg was excessively entertained by the old woman's absurdities, and was on the point of amusing himself still further at her expense by laying some fresh trap for her folly, happily bethought him that the only way to procure silence would be to ask Slawa to sing. So he begged his cousin to give them some national air. Siegburg joined in the request, but Slawa tried to excuse herself on a variety of pretexts: the piano was too low, the room was bad to sing in, and so forth and so forth ... at last, however, she was persuaded to sing some patriotic songs in which Matuschowsky accompanied her.
Her tall, Walkure-like figure swayed and trembled with romantic emotion, and faithful to the traditions of the "art frémissant"--the thrilling school--she held a piece of music fast in both hands for the sake of effect, though it had not the remotest connection with the song she was singing. Her mother sat in breathless silence; tears of admiration ran down her cheeks; like many other mothers, she only recognized those of Slawa's defects which came into conflict with her own idiosyncracy and admired everything else. When Slawa had shouted the last verse of the latest revolutionary ditty, which would have been prohibited in forty-eight, and Sterzl was still asking himself whether it was worse to listen to the mother's tongue or the daughter's singing, Matuschowsky, whose chagrin at the small approval bestowed on his and Slawa's musical efforts had reached an unendurable pitch, observed that it was growing late and that the ladies must be needing rest after all their exertions and fatigues. Madame Wolnitzka hastened to devour the last slice of tea-cake, brushed the crumbs away from her purple satin lap on to the carpet, rose slowly, and made her way with many bows and courtesies towards the door, taking at least half an hour before she was fairly gone.
When his relatives had at length disappeared Sterzl accompanied the two gentlemen, who had also bid the ladies good-night, into the hall, and said good-humoredly to Siegburg:
"You, I fancy, are the only one of the party who has really enjoyed the evening." Siegburg colored; then looking up frankly at his friend he said: "You are not offended?"
"Well--perhaps, just a little," replied Sterzl, with a smile, "but I must admit that the temptation was a strong one."
"And really and truly I am very sorry for you," Siegburg went on, with that ingenuous want of tact that never lost him a friend. "There is nothing in the world so odious as to have a posse of disagreeable relations who suddenly appear and cling on to your coat-tails. I know it by experience. Last spring, at Vienna, half a dozen old aunts of my mother's came down upon us from Bukowina like a snow-storm...." Sempaly meanwhile had buttoned himself into his fur-lined coat and said nothing.