It was a few hours later. The baroness was sitting in her room, in her accustomed place near the open glass door. She had an embroidery in her lap; but her hands were idle, and only when steps were heard approaching the door, which opened upon the passage, she quickly took up her work and sewed a few stitches, letting it drop again in her lap when the steps had passed. This was several times repeated, for there was an active movement going on at the château. Everybody was more or less busy with preparations for the evening, and the economical baroness found it very difficult to sit still, doing nothing, when her presence was so necessary in kitchen and pantry. But she had sent a request to Miss Helen to come and see her when she had done with her practising, and she wanted her daughter to find her calm and disposed to enter into a friendly, though serious, conversation.
At least externally calm. For in her heart there was little peace. The trouble about the letter, it is true, seemed to be uncalled for. It had evidently not been carried back to Helen, and that was, for the moment, the main point. She felt at liberty to use all the arrows which she had gathered from the letter, without being afraid of their rebounding upon the archer. Nevertheless, the clever and courageous lady had never in her life so anxiously looked forward to a conversation with any one. And yet she had had many very serious interviews, as nearly the whole administration of the large estate was resting on her shoulders alone. She did not think very well of men generally, and valued each one according to the price for which he would probably give up his convictions. For the baroness believed that everybody had his price, a belief shared by everybody who, like herself, served the god Mammon with his whole heart, his whole soul, and his whole mind.
She would have liked to consider her daughter also under the general rule, of which she herself did not claim to be an exception, but she found it impossible. A secret voice, which she could not silence, told her: Helen will not sell her soul for thirty pieces of silver, nor for so many millions, nor for anything in the world. Another mother would have been delighted with such an idea; she would have respected her daughter as her better self, and worshipped her as her beau ideal. The baroness knew no such enthusiasm. The spirit that throned on her daughter's proud brow, and looked so great, so noble in her dark eyes--that spirit was to her a strange, unnatural, and hostile spirit. She had nothing in common with such thoughts. Helen was the child of her mind, but not of her heart. Helen had inherited the gentle disposition, and the honest upright character of her father the very qualities against which the baroness was, in truth, continually struggling. But she had, besides, the powerful intellect of her mother, and was thus enabled to protect the holy things of her heart with the sharp sword of the mind, without yet ever desecrating it by using it in a bad cause and this combination made her so irresistibly attractive to noble souls, so hateful to low and ignoble souls.
At this moment, however, the baroness took much trouble to show a conciliatory, peaceful, and friendly disposition. The effort made her almost disposed to tears. It may be that she looked upon tears as, after all, probably the best means to touch her noble daughter's heart, and to win her for her own selfish views.
There came a knock at the door, The baroness snatched up her work. Upon her: Come in! Helen entered the room. The baroness was rather near-sighted, and did not at once notice that the noble, proud face of the young girl was deadly pale--not with that painful pallor which cowardice gives to the cheeks, but with that marble paleness which harmonizes very well with eyes full of heroic fire.
"I am sorry, dear child," said the baroness, "to have to interrupt you in your early studies. I sent for you in order to speak to you about a matter of the utmost importance. But sit down! Take that chair in which your father usually sits."
"Thank you," said Helen, and remained standing.
The measured, almost curt tone, in which these two words were uttered, made the baroness look up from her work. She noticed now for the first time the pale cheeks of her daughter, and her own cheeks lost their color.
"I hope you are not unwell," she said, and her voice was less firm than usual. "If you are, we will postpone our conversation till another time. You will need all your strength for to-night."
"I am perfectly well," replied the young girl; "I was myself on the point of asking you to grant me an interview, since I also have to speak to you of matters of importance."
"You to me?" said--the baroness, fixing her large, deep-sunk eyes upon her daughter's pale face. "You to me? What can that be? Speak out!"
"It is this!" said Helen; "I found night before last near the chapel a letter----"
The baroness raised her head, and cast at Helen a look in which consternation, wrath, fear, and defiance were strangely mingled.
"A letter," continued Helen, "which I had written and given to Louisa to be sent to the post-office. It was, of course, sealed when I gave it to Louisa; when I found it, it had been broken open. I can hardly imagine that Louisa, who is so very warmly attached to me, should take sufficient interest in my correspondence to commit such a wrong at the risk of being immediately turned out of the house. I must, therefore, assure you that there is somebody else in the house who takes the trouble to play the spy upon me. I intended, therefore, to come and ask you what I ought to do?"
The baroness had been steadily sewing at her work while Helen was speaking. Now she looked up and asked:
"For whom was the letter intended?"
"For Mary Burton."
"Did you speak very freely in your letter?"
"As friends write to friends."
"Did the letter contain things which you would not like to be seen by others?"
"Certainly."
"Not even by your parents?"
Helen made no answer.
"Not even by your parents?"
"Yes."
"For instance, that your parents are dead for you, as well as your other relations."
"You read the letter?"
"You see I did."
"Then I have nothing more to say or to ask."
Helen bowed and was about to leave the room.
"Stay!" said the baroness; "if you have nothing more to say, I have some questions to ask, which you will be good enough to answer. As for the letter, you need not give yourself any more trouble about it. When parents permit their children to correspond without surveillance, they expect that their children will be worthy of such a privilege. When they see themselves deceived in this expectation they withdraw the privilege. That is perfectly natural. But it is not at all natural that a child, after having received nothing but affection from her parents, should abandon them at once; it is not natural, when a child has the boldness to conceive such a thought, to write it down, and to communicate her disgrace to others. What can you say in reply?"
"Nothing."
"And if such a child takes all the love she owes her parents, and all the affection she owes her other relatives, and bestows them upon strangers, for instance, upon a so-called friend, whose only merit consists in having been at the same boarding-school, or upon a boy who has been taken into the house from charity, or upon a paid servant of her parents,--yes, miss! a paid servant, with whom the parents, moreover, are very much dissatisfied,--what can you say to that?"
"Nothing."
"And if your parents are still willing to forgive you, if your relatives, whose affection you do not deserve, are disposed not to give you up, if you see that parents and relatives join hands in order to save your imperilled honor,--if they propose to give you in the person of a husband a friend and protector, who will keep you hereafter from committing such follies, to use no harsher name, and if one of your relatives is willing to assume this difficult task of being your husband, friend, and tutor,--have you nothing to say to that also?"
"Oh yes," replied Helen, who had been standing there, pale and motionless, without moving a muscle, fixing her large dark eyes with an expression of invincible courage, till she had risen to confront her, "Oh yes! I have to reply to that, that I prefer death a thousand times to becoming Felix's wife."
She said this calmly, slowly, weighing, as it were, every syllable.
"And if your parents insist?"
"Then I cannot and shall not obey."
"And if they announce to-night your engagement to Felix to the assembled guests?"
"Then I shall say to the assembled guests what I have just said to you."
"Is that your final decision?"
"It is, so help me God!"
"Well, then I give you up, as you have given me up! Go then, and throw yourself into the arms of that beggar. But no! God be thanked, we have still means to conceal such a disgrace from the world. To-morrow you will pack your things, and day after to-morrow you will go back to school."
A ray of joy broke from Helen's dark eyes, and a slight blush covered her pale cheeks.
"I am perfectly willing to go!"
"But not to Hamburg," said the baroness, and there was cruel irony in her words. "I have had enough of Mary Burton. You will go to Grunwald. I have already written to Miss Bear. She is not quite as indulgent as Madame Bernard, but there is no call for kindness and indulgence now. Go to your room now. At six you will be ready dressed for the ball. Consider once more what you are going to do. I give you time till then. Now you can go."
Helen went to the door without saying a word. As she was about to go out, the old baron entered.
"Where are you going to, my darling?" he said, cordially stretching out his hand towards her.
Helen seized his hand, pressed it to her lips, and said:
"Do not condemn me till you have heard me, papa!"
Then she hastened out of the room.
"What is the matter with the girl?" said the old gentleman, looking after her in astonishment.
"Come, Grenwitz," said the baroness, "I have to speak to you about some important matters."
The conversation between the baroness and her husband lasted for some time, but Anna Maria was unlucky today in her diplomatic negotiations. She had not been able to bend her daughter's pride, and she was not able, now, to convert her husband to her views, yielding as he generally was. It is a well-known fact, that very pliant persons are apt to become most obstinate and self-willed on some points. It looks as if these points were impregnable fortresses, places of refuge for the will of such men, to which they retire when they have been beaten and overcome everywhere else, in order to defend their independence here to the uttermost. The baroness had experienced this more than once during her lone dominion over her husband. The latter generally confided blindly in her, and worshipped her with a kind of idolatry; but every now and then a spirit of opposition had risen in him, and frequently in matters where she had least expected resistance. She had always known how to avoid difficulties in such cases, by prudent and timely concessions. She had paid little attention to these occurrences, because they were generally caused by mere trifles. But if she had compared these cases of "stubbornness" of the old gentleman with each other, she would have found that they always showed the plain, honest good sense, and the inexhaustible goodness of the baron, as arrayed against some cunning, selfish measure on the side of his wife. The old gentleman might not be considered very clever, but there was something in him that was more powerful than all his wife's sophisms; a divine spark which, if needs be, could still blaze up in a flame. This spark of divine fire was the power of forgetting himself for the sake of others, and of finding his own happiness in the happiness of others. For there never was a greater truth uttered, than that charity is high above all the knowledge and the highest powers of man, and the greatest of all virtues.
People who look upon charity and love as very superfluous articles of luxury, and who have little opportunity to see their efficacy in themselves, are apt to forget these elements in their calculations. This is what happened to the baroness. It had never occurred to her that the baron might really love his child, and that he then would naturally value her happiness more highly than all worldly advantages. And now an almost incredible thing happened. The old gentleman declared most positively that, if Helen was sure she could not love Felix, the matter was settled once for all times. He did not deny the advantages which such a match could not fail to secure to all the parties interested, nor the pleasure with which he himself would have seen such a union. But he insisted upon due regard being paid to Helen's peace and happiness. And here he took his stand. Anna Maria did not spare words; she even had recourse to tears. She painted Helen's defiance and her improper conduct during the last interview in the darkest colors; she threatened the old man that she would resort to extremities, and leave him to choose between herself and his disobedient child, as she did not mean to be disgraced by seeing her daughter triumph over her in her own house--it was all in vain; the old gentleman maintained his position with the utmost tenacity. He would not admit that Helen was a bad girl; she might have been carried away by passion, but she was not bad at heart; she would soon come and ask her mother's pardon. And even if she should be less good than he believed her, even if she had behaved badly towards her mother, that was yet no reason why she should be forced into a hateful union. All the baroness could obtain was, that Helen, if she still refused, should leave home for a time. The father consented to this, because he thought it best for mother and daughter to part for a time, until the passions should have subsided a little on both sides. He did not object to Helen's going to Grunwald instead of Hamburg, because that would enable him to see her more frequently, and because he looked upon the whole arrangement only as a provisional one, which would, in all probability, not last long. Anna Maria, on the other hand, had to be content with this result, as she had constantly to fear that Helen, driven to bay, might make that unpleasant affair of the letter known to her father. This fear had made her less energetic in the whole conversation than she usually was. Her bad conscience had made a coward of her, and this cowardice had made it easier for the baron to triumph. He kissed his wife on the forehead, as he always did after a scene of more or less painful controversy, thanked her for her readiness to fall in with his views and wishes, and expressed a hope that the peace of the family would ere long be fully restored.
"I should feel wretched, if I had to see those I love best upon earth divided among themselves," the good old man said, with tears in his eyes. "I have prayed to God all these days for light to show me what I ought to do in this matter. I should be sorry to have in any way offended you, dear Anna Maria, for I know how much I owe you; but I have also duties towards my daughter, and I cannot consent that you should make her unhappy, with the best intentions in the world. God knows, I desire nothing but your happiness; and now, my dear Anna Maria, let us go to dinner, for, if I am not mistaken, dinner has been announced twice already."
The baroness was to have no rest to-day.
The melancholy dinner, at which neither Oswald, who would not leave Bruno, nor Helen, who excused herself on the plea of a bad headache, had made their appearance, was over, and the baron had just gone out to have a talk with Helen and to inquire after Bruno. The baroness had remained alone with Felix, and knew she would have to tell him the disagreeable news that their joint plans had been utterly defeated by Helen's obstinate resistance and the baron's stubbornness. How could she make such a confession, she who had boasted so much of her unlimited power over her husband; she who had not only originated the plan, but who had carried on the whole transaction! It was a hard task for the selfish, ambitious woman.
How much she now regretted ever having read that letter! It had told her little more than what she already knew, and how she had compromised herself! She could no longer use her full authority against Helen, for her daughter had a formidable weapon in her hands. Anna Maria knew full well that the baron would never approve of such a breach of faith, especially in his present state of mind. Nor could she be more candid with Felix. She had to tell him that the battle was lost, and had not even the consolation to be able to show him that it was lost only by an unfortunate accident.
The bitter cap had to be drained. Felix could not trust his ears. He, Felix, Baron Grenwitz, had been refused, spurned with contempt, in the one single case in which he had been in earnest! And by whom? By a girl fresh from school! And possibly for the sake of an obscure person, whose sole merit was that he looked almost like a gentleman. Felix behaved as if the world must come to an end now. To lose Helen well, he might have found consolation for that; but to lose, with her, also the prospect of seeing his debts paid, or rather, of seeing his credit considerably improved, that was far worse, and a very serious matter to a man like Felix. Helen's dower, the sums which his uncle had promised to advance in order to enable him to make his exhausted estates once more productive, all to be lost--no! they could not trifle with him in this way! He had done all he could do; he had thrown up his commission (better: he had been forced to leave the army); he had been authorized by the baroness to make his engagement publicly known, and now--his commission, his future wife, his honor--all lost!
"I shall blow out my brains," he cried pathetically.
The baroness tried to calm him--and she succeeded very quickly--by promising him that, in spite of the failure in his courtship, the other parts of the agreement should stand as if he had succeeded.
When they had settled this important point they were able to discuss with a little more composure the question as to what might be the real reason for Helen's refusal. To Felix's great astonishment, the baroness insisted upon it, that there existed a regular attachment between Oswald and her daughter. She would not tell what made her think so with certainty; but she was so persistent that Felix at last admitted "the thing might be possible, ridiculous as it was." "That man is a cunning fox," he said. "Timm warned me against him from the beginning; I did not attach much importance to what he said, because he and Stein seemed to be good friends. But I see now Timm was right."
A servant brought the baroness a letter from Grunwald, that had been sent by a special messenger.
"From Mr. Timm," she said, surprised, when she had opened the letter. "I am quite curious to see what he can have to write. I hope he was paid properly. Excuse me, dear Felix."
Her face, however, gradually assumed such an expression of astonishment, consternation, and terror, as she went on reading, that Felix could not keep from saying:
"But, dearest aunt, what is the matter? You have turned as white as the wall!"
"Oh, it is hideous!" said the baroness. "It is scandalous! These scoundrels! It is a regular plot! These scoundrels!"
"But, for Heaven's sake, what is the matter?" cried Felix.
"There, you may read yourself!" said the baroness, handing him the letter, trembling with rage.
Felix took the letter and read:
"Madam:--It is not my fault if the contents of this letter should prove unpleasant to you. You know the veneration I feel for yourself and your whole family; you know the zeal I have always shown in your service, and the gratitude I have felt for your amiable hospitality in former days, and especially during the last happy days. If I must, therefore, speak and act in a manner which seems to contradict these sentiments, I hope you will see at once that the contradiction is only apparent, and that I am compelled to act by a principle which is even higher than personal friendship and individual respect: I mean the duty we all owe to Justice.
"This innate sense of right, which I have no doubt inherited from my sainted father, forces me to inform you, without the slightest delay, of a most remarkable discovery which I have recently made.
"You know that my father was a lawyer in Grunwald; that his practice was as large as his reputation for uprightness, conscientiousness, and ability was extensive, and that he counted the very first families of the province among his clients. Thus he stood also in his business relations with Baron Harald Grenwitz, and was, moreover, as I have often heard him relate, bound to him by personal friendship. At least my father frequently mentioned that the late baron intrusted him with the management of the most delicate family matters. The truth of this assertion is strongly confirmed by the discovery of which I have spoken before.
"It consists in this: I have found, by chance, several packages of papers and letters, all of which once belonged to Baron Harald, and were by him intrusted to my father for unknown purposes (as there is no explanation given anywhere in the baron's handwriting, or in my father's). In all probability they were intended to help my father in discovering the child to which the baron had, in a special codicil, bequeathed a considerable fortune. There is no doubt, at all events, that such a search can only be begun by the aid of these letters and papers, and, of course, they are indispensable for success. I am also persuaded that nothing but my father's sudden death has prevented him from obtaining such a result, and that an able lawyer could easily take up the thread of his investigations where it dropped from the hand of my father.
"The papers consist of, 1. A bundle of letters of a certain Mademoiselle Marie Montbert, addressed to Baron Harald Grenwitz; 2. A like bundle of letters written by the baron to the young lady; 3. Several letters from a certain Monsieur d'Estein to Mademoiselle Montbert; 4. Several family documents concerning Mademoiselle Montbert; 5. A perfect copy of the last will of Baron Harald, together with the codicil, which contains, as you know, not only the conditions attached to the legacy, but also the means by which the child in question may most easily be discovered and authenticated. You know that the codicil contains, in this part, the names of Mademoiselle Montbert and of Monsieur d'Estein, and it need not be stated that these persons are the same as those who wrote the above-mentioned letters.
"So far, all I have reported to you has nothing especially surprising for those who are not personally interested in the affair. But what I have to say next is so extraordinary that I must ask your permission to state it in person, I can only tell you, that in Mr. d'Estein's letters the name occurs which that gentleman proposed to adopt after having succeeded in rescuing Mademoiselle Montbert, and that this name, if you simply leave off the d' and the E, agrees with that of a gentleman who has been living for some time in your family. I may add that, for my part, I am fully convinced of the identity of this person with the unknown heir to Stantow and Baerwalde, especially in consequence of communications made to me by that person himself about his family and his early youth.
"While this is my personal conviction, I have yet taken care not to mention it as yet to the person in question, as, after all, there might be some doubt about it yet, and I did not wish to excite hopes which might possibly not be realized.
"I break off here, in order not to anticipate too fully my oral report (perhaps you will shortly be in Grunwald? or do you desire me to come to Grenwitz?), and also in order not to risk too much in confiding these valuable secrets to a letter.
"Accept, madam, the assurances of my," etc., etc., etc.
"Here is a 'Turn-over,'" said Felix, turning over the last page.
"P.S.--As the papers are scarcely quite safe in my own rooms, I mean to place them in the hands of a lawyer, in caseyou should not, very promptly, dispose of them otherwise.
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Felix; "there the fox shows his cunning! In case you should not otherwise dispose of them, underscored:i. e., have the goodness to name the sum which you think you can afford to pay for these papers, and the secret goes no farther!--Ha, ha, ha! Yes, yes, Timm is a clever fellow, I always knew that."
"Then you think he has really found the papers?" asked the baroness, in astonishment.
"Why not?" said Felix. "The thing looks extremely probable, and I advise you to buy the papers before they rise in the market."
"And do you also think that this--that this man--I can hardly speak of it calmly--that this Stein is really Harald's son?"
"It is by no means impossible," said Felix.
"No, itisimpossible," cried the baroness, with great vehemence; "the whole is a wretched plot, an abominable conspiracy between the two sharpers. The letters are forgeries; they have been concocted and written by the two rascals when they were here together. It is a mere invention to frighten us and to extort money from us--or perhaps, ha! now I see! Don't you see, Felix, what they are after? They want Helen! One is to have the money, the other the girl! Ha, ha, ha! Capital! What a pity Helen did not say anything of that also in her letter to Mary Burton, for I wager she is in the plot too. But they shall not get anything, not a dollar!"
"Do not take the matter too lightly, dearest aunt," said Felix. "I tell you Timm is a clever fellow, and if the letters are really forgeries, you will find they are prodigiously well done. They will give you trouble. Will you listen to my advice?"
"Well!"
"Let me go to-morrow, or at some time, to Grunwald and talk with Timm. I have had, in former times, many a conversation with him, and he knows that I am not easily hoodwinked. We shall have to pay something, I am sure, but I can get the papers cheaper than anybody else."
"And what is to be done with Mr. Stein?"
"He must be turned out in disgrace. Will you leave that also to me?"
"Yes, do what you like. Only relieve me of that man."
"I'll do it. There will probably be an occasion for it this very night. The more noise is made about it the better. He shall lose all desire to have anything more to do with us. But you must not say a word of it to uncle."
"For heaven's sake no!" said the baroness. "He is capable of introducing Mr. Stein, this very night, to the whole company as our esteemed relative. He is almost childish now, and I can no longer trust him in anything."
"Well then," said Felix, kissing his aunt's hand, "rely upon me. We'll carry the matter through, I am sure. But I think, dear aunt, it must be high time to get ready. For heaven's sake, it is five o'clock, and some of the guests will come at six! How can I get ready in an hour?"
Carriage after carriage came thundering through the great portal, drove round the courtyard, and stopped before the door. Ladies and gentlemen in full dress got out and followed the servants into dressing-rooms. A few minutes later the folding-doors were thrown open, and they were received by the old baron and Felix in the great reception-rooms in the lower story.
Thus the whole nobility of the neighborhood had gradually assembled. Not only the gala carriages in which they had come,--some with four, and a few even with six high-bred horses, to say nothing of the outriders in bright liveries,--but also the evening dress of the gentlemen and the brilliant toilettes of the ladies showed that they had come prepared for a magnificent entertainment. They thought, moreover, they could tell what was the special occasion for this party, as the baroness and Felix had not been sparing of allusions to an event which might possibly take place in a short time! The baroness and Felix had got themselves into a serious difficulty by these allusions, and were now on the point of learning how much more troublesome it is to silence gossip than to start it. The more modest among the guests looked full of expectation, curious friends ventured upon allusions, and a few impertinent neighbors even asked direct questions, till they could scarcely preserve their polite equanimity during such a cross-fire of examination. The company seemed to be determined to believe in the engagement, and patiently waited till supper-time, when they thought the truth would come out at last. A few only were sharp-sighted enough to notice certain indications which made them think the end not quite so near yet. They pointed out the unusually formal manner of the baroness, who was at times almost embarrassed; the frequent mistakes of the old baron, who was more absent-minded than ever, and by no means looked like a happy father; and, above all, the distance at which Baron Felix kept from Miss Helen, who looked more like a beautiful statue of cold marble than like a young girl on the day on which her engagement was to be made public.
For a time, however, the attention of the company was somewhat preoccupied by the appearance of a lady and gentleman who were in good earnest engaged, and presented themselves to-day for the first time as such in public: Miss Emily Breesen and Arthur Baron Cloten. The young couple had already paid the visits usual on such occasions in that province, but the neighborhood was very large and some had not been reached at all, while others had been unfortunately away from home. There were, therefore, countless congratulations yet to receive and to return. Emily and Baron Cloten formed the centre of a large circle of ladies and gentlemen respectively, who found little else to talk of but their happiness. Cloten seemed to be overjoyed; he was talking and laughing incessantly, and it seemed to be miraculous that a single little hair was surviving in his diminutive moustache--so very industriously did he twist and twirl it through his fingers. Emily seemed to bear her good fortune with more composure; the minority of sharp-sighted observers even thought they noticed a dim cloud on her brow, in spite of the efforts she made to smile upon everybody; they also fancied that her eye was ceaselessly examining the company, without ever resting for a moment on her happy betrothed.
There was evidently abundant food for gossip to-night.
The intimacy between Baron Cloten and Baron Barnewitz's lovely, but dangerous wife, Hortense, had of course remained no secret in a society so full of spies and tale bearers, and the last large party at Barnewitz, with its unpleasant scenes between Cloten and Hortense's husband, during which the unlucky lady fainted so inopportunely, had lifted the last thin veil from this liaison. Everybody, therefore, was full of curiosity to see how Hortense would bear her loss, and especially to find out whom the blonde Loreley would choose for Cloten's successor. Some supposed it would be Count Grieben, others Adolphus Breesen. Both were equally eager to win the good-will of the dangerous Circe. The former was a rejected lover of Emily's, and therefore seemed to be specially fitted to become Cloten's successor; the latter was by far the handsomest and cleverest young man in the whole set--qualities which Hortense, with her own cleverness, appreciated fully.
"I bet upon Grieben," said young Sylow; "a basket of champagne. Who takes the bet?"
"I," cried Nadelitz; "pshaw! Don't I know Breesen?"
"Six bottles forfeit, up to the cotillon to-night?"
"Ha, ha! Do you hear? He is losing courage already; but I take it. Done!"
"Really a famous woman, the Barnewitz," said Hans Pluggen; "I wish I were one of the candidates!"
"Well, that wouldn't be so very difficult," said somebody else.
"I cannot imagine what you see in the Barnewitz," replied young Sylow. "Now, if it were the Berkow! I wish she were here!"
"I dare say there are plenty who wish so," said one, laughing. "But you know, I suppose, that Berkow is dead and the widow has come back?"
"Old news!"
"Well, do you know, too, that Oldenburg is going to be married?"
"Nonsense!"
"You may rely upon it. I have it from the Barnewitz. She surely must know."
"Is Oldenburg coming to-night?"
"Felix said he had promised to come; but Oldenburg has his own ways."
Melitta's return and her husband's death were discussed in other circles also besides those of the young men. Melitta was one of the most popular ladies in society, and yet she had, strange enough, few enemies and rivals. Now and then people spoke of her "eccentricities," of a desire to be apart and different from others; some said she was too learned, others, she was coquetting with liberal politicians--but generally her loveliness, her kindness, and unpretending manners were readily acknowledged. Aside from such remarks, moreover, the charms of her person were above all criticism. Hence, everybody seemed to be glad that she had at last been relieved of the terrible burden, which she had borne so sweetly, and was eager to know whom she would make happy by giving him her hand. For no one doubted that so young a widow would soon marry again. In some indefinite way a report had of late obtained currency that Baron Oldenburg had the best prospect; it was even whispered quite secretly, and as a mereon dit, for which no one wished to be held responsible, that the intimacy between the baron and Melitta was of old date, and that Baron Berkow had lost his mind very opportunely. A few details even were mentioned, by those who claimed to be particularly well informed, which could not have been true without compromising Melitta's reputation very seriously. No one knew with whom these reports originated. The sharp-sighted observers, again, ascribed them to Hortense Barnewitz, who, they said, had thus avenged herself on Oldenburg for a piece of advice he had given Cloten, which had led the latter in his blind obedience to find himself engaged to Emily Breesen before he well knew what he was doing.
In the mean time eight o'clock had come, and with it the hour at which the ball was to commence. The baroness opened it with Count Grieben. Count Grieben found it difficult to make himself heard, in spite of his screaming voice, as the music preceded them during the old-fashioned polonaise through all the rooms, and then, thanks to a happy inspiration of his genius, across the lawn, through the darkest parts of the garden, and back again into the principal ball-room, where it ended in a solemn slow waltz.
"That is a good old fashion, baroness!" he screamed, delighted, into his partner's ear; "my sainted father had it so, and my sainted grandfather, and a great many more, no doubt. The old ones knew a thing or two. Young folks are stupid folks. Don't you think so?"
"Yes, indeed, indeed!" replied the baroness.
Dance followed dance. The violins screamed, the bass growled. The faces of the dancers began to look heated; the ladies used their fans vehemently, and the servants, who continually went around with large waiters of refreshments, saw them disappear more and more rapidly--but there was no real enjoyment, and it seemed as if a cloud were resting on the whole company.
"What on earth can be the matter to-night?" said young Grieben, wiping his forehead during one of the pauses, and addressing a group of dancers who stood in the very centre of the room; "we work ourselves to death and nothing comes of it; there is noen trainin the matter."
"Well, you can dance a long time before your long legs are tired," said young Sylow; "but you are right; I have drunk a couple of bottles, and yet the more I drink the sadder I become."
"That is exactly my case," said a third; "I do not know what it can be, but the ball at Barnewitz was a good deal merrier."
"What it can be?" said Breesen. "Well, I should think that was clear enough. The old baron looks like a wet chicken in the rain; the old baroness like a dethroned Hecuba--isn't it Hecuba? Felix quarrels with everybody who comes near him, and Miss Helen has not said three words all the evening. And you expect people to enjoy themselves? I feel as if it were a funeral."
"Well, there is a sick man at all events," said Pluggen; "the old baron just told me: Bruno has been sick in bed since yesterday."
"Ah, I suppose that is the reason why Doctor Stein has not come down?" said Count Grieben; "I thought he was correcting exercises, perhaps, and would come down after a while, ha, ha, ha!"
"Hush, Grieben," said Hans Pluggen; "the other day you spoke very differently about the doctor."
"I said he was a consummate fool, whom I would enlighten on the subject of his position, and I say so again."
"Why, that is word for word what Felix was saying just now; the doctor seems to be a great favorite with the gentlemen."
"He is all the more liked by the ladies," observed Nadelitz, ironically.
"Yes, indeed," added Breesen; "he is said to have made three sisters at once unhappy at the ball the other day."
"At least they have not cried their eyes out, as they say Miss Emily has done," replied Nadelitz, annoyed by Breesen's allusion to his three sisters.
"You must not say such things!" cried Breesen, angrily.
"What is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander."
"I called no names."
"Because everybody knew idiom you meant."
"But, gentlemen,tant de bruit pour une omelette!" said Pluggen. "I wonder if you are going to quarrel about that man? why, that would be the very way to make people believe that he is a favorite with the ladies."
"Do you know the last news?" said Cloten, suddenly pushing his blonde moustache into the group.
"Well?"
"Just imagine that Stein--but hush, there is Grenwitz--not a word, I pray you!"
"Well, gentlemen!" said Felix, "will you please form a cotillon? I have already twice given notice!"
Felix said this in a somewhat irritated tone of voice. His face, generally pale, was deep red. He had evidently taken a good deal of wine.
When the dance was over the same gentlemen, whose conversation Felix had interrupted, met once more as if by agreement.
"Well, where is Cloten with his last piece of news?" asked Sylow.
"Here," said Cloten, coming up. "Just imagine this Stein--we are quiteentre noushere?"
"Oh yes! Go on!"
"Has the impudence--well, guess! to fall in love with whom?"
"Ah, Cloten, you are unbearable! Are you going to tell us or not?"
"With Helen Grenwitz!" said Cloten, in a hollow voice.
"Well, not so bad!" said Sylow.
"That is just like the fellow," added Grieben.
"Hinc illæ lacrimæ!" laughed Breesen, who had retained a few Latin phrases from his school-days.
"And the best of it is," continued Cloten, "Miss Helen is by no means averse;au contraire, she is head over ears in love with him. Now, is not that charming?"
"Who on earth has made you believe that bloody story?" asked Breesen.
"I have it from very good authority," replied Cloten, with a significative wink of the eye towards that part of the room where Emily was standing in conversation with Helen.
"Hm, hm!" said Breesen.
"The story is not improbable," remarked Sylow. "That explains the deep melancholy of all the Grenwitz family; they look like mutes."
"Did not I always say there was something the matter tonight?" remarked Breesen, again. "I am quite glad now I did not become more intimate with the fellow; at first, I confess, I liked him very well. The man has really something very winning about him."
"He is a famous shot!" said Sylow, meditatively.
"Famous or not famous!" said Cloten, "I verily believe you give him a wide berth, gentlemen, because he is a tolerably good shot. No, gentlemen, that will not do, really, that will not do! I propose that we make amends for our first blunder and treat the man, if he should ever show himself again among us, as he deserves--with the utmost contempt."
"'Pon honor!" said Grieben, "Cloten, is right I shall make the fellow acquainted with my hunting-whip."
"It is a pity he is not here, so that you could carry out your threat at once!" said Breesen, ironically.
"Quand on parle du loup," said Sylow; "there he is! And his Pylades, Oldenburg, as a matter of course, by his side."
The open folding-doors were really just then showing Oldenburg and Oswald in the adjoining room. They conversed for a few minutes with each other; then Oldenburg entered the ball-room, while Oswald was held back by the old baron.