"Must I really pay the driver twenty silver groschen for my small self and my small box?" asked Meta, bursting into Elsa's room.
"Good gracious, Meta!"
"First answer my question!"
"I do not know."
"Fräulein Elsa does not know either, August!" cried Meta into the passage; "so pay him what he asks. And now, you dear, darling, best of creatures, tell me if I am welcome!" Meta threw her arms round Elsa's neck, laughing and crying both at once. "You see, here I am at last, without any letter, after announcing my arrival fifty times. I could not bear it any longer. As often as papa said, 'You can have the horses tomorrow,' it never came to anything; for when to-morrow arrived the horses were always wanted for somebody or something else. So when he said it again this morning, as we were having our coffee, I said, 'No! not to-morrow, but to-day, immediately, on the spot,tout de suite!'--packed my box--that is why it is so small, my clothes had not come home from the wash--you must help me out--and here I am. And as for the cabman, that was only because my papa said: 'Take care you are not cheated!' and my mamma said: 'Cheated! nonsense! if only she has her wits about her!' And so on the way I vowed most solemnly to be desperately wise and not to disgrace you, and so I began at once with the cabman, you see." And Meta danced about the room and clasped Elsa round the neck again, and exclaimed: "This is the happiest night of my life, and if you send me away again early tomorrow morning it will still have been the happiest night!"
"And I hope that this evening will be followed by many happy ones for both of us. Oh! you do not know, dear Meta, how glad I am to see you!" cried Elsa, taking Meta in her arms and heartily returning her kiss.
"Now that I know that," said Meta, "I do not in the least want to know about anything else; that is to say I should like it dreadfully, but it is a point of honour with me now to be wise and discreet, you know; and you do not know that side of my character yet--neither do I myself. We must make acquaintance with me together, that will be awfully amusing. Good gracious! what nonsense I am talking just from sheer happiness!" Meta's presence was for the house in the Springbrunnenstrasse like a sunbeam penetrating a chink in the shutters of a dark room. It is not broad daylight, there are heavy shadows enough still; any one who happens to pass a looking-glass starts at the dim reflection of his own sad face; and people move carefully so as not to stumble, and speak with bated breath for fear of what may yet be hidden in the darkness. But still they move and speak; there is no longer the former silent darkness with all its terrors. Hardly a week had gone by, then, before the bright, talkative little girl had become the favourite of one and all. The General, who had almost entirely shut himself up in his own room lately, now spent a few hours every evening, as he used to do, with the rest of the family, unless, as had happened several times already, they were going out. He allowed himself to be instructed by Meta in agricultural matters, in which she declared herself to be an authority even with her papa--and that was saying a great deal--and permitted her to question him as to "what a battle really was like?" "Did Moltke sometimes yawn when it lasted too long?" and "Might a lieutenant wear varnished boots in battle?"
"It makes me shudder when I hear it all, Elsa; your friend is quite anenfant terrible," said Sidonie; but was calmed and consoled at once when Meta expressed the greatest interest in her "Court Etiquette," and declared that it was a very different sort of thing from Strummin etiquette. One found oneself always in the best society with highnesses and serene highnesses; and if one did sometimes come down to the backstairs, in her eyes a page of the backstairs was a person highly to be respected.
"She really has very considerable talents," said Sidonie, "and a great desire for instruction. I have given her the first part of Malortie's 'High Chamberlain;' you might read it aloud together for half an hour this evening, instead of chattering till two o'clock in the morning. Heaven only knows what you find to talk about!" Even Ottomar, who since his engagement was hardly ever seen at home--"He is not with us," said Carla--appeared again now, if he knew that his father would not be there, and made so merry with the mischievous girl, "that it cuts one to the heart," thought Elsa. The servants even were enchanted with the strange young lady. Ottomar's man protested that she would suit the Lieutenant ten times better; the lady's-maid praised her because one could at any rate quarrel with her, which was quite impossible with Fräulein Elsa; and August said she was A 1. In society, too, Meta made many conquests. Old Baroness Kniebreche thought hertout à fait ridicule, mais délicieuse. The saying went the round, like all that came from that toothless old mouth, andla délicieuse ridiculewas welcomed everywhere. Wartenberg was of opinion that the girl "always brought life into the place." Tettritz was always reminded by her of the shepherd's flute in "Tristan;" Schönau said she was an original; and Meta, in return, found everybody and everything charming. She had never thought there were so many charming people; "but you are the best of all, Elsa, and nothing else really signifies!" And indeed while the kindhearted girl seemed to give herself up entirely to the enjoyment of the gay bustle of society, and often indeed to be quite absorbed in it, she really had only one serious interest, and that was to love and please Elsa. She had come because the melancholy tone of Elsa's last letters had startled and distressed her, and she thought she knew better than any one else the cause of this depression. That her brother's engagement, however much against Elsa's wish, should distress her friend so deeply, she could not believe; that the differences between her father and her Aunt Valerie and their consequences could depress and discourage the usually cheerful brave temper, she could not make up her mind to, either. Elsa, however, had put forward no other reasons, and either could not or would not give any others, as the actual connection of the tragical circumstances attending Ottomar's betrothal was happily a secret to her and to Aunt Sidonie, and her own secret was carefully guarded by her modest pride. So carefully, that even now in the confidential talks which to Aunt Sidonie's horror extended so far into the night, when after tea with the family, or on coming home from a party, they retired to their rooms, no word passed her discreet lips, and Meta began to doubt her own acuteness. All the more as the engagement which distressed Elsa so much, really did look much more serious when looked at closely than it had seemed to Meta from the brief, written accounts. Meta had now made acquaintance personally with Ottomar and Carla; Ottomar, although Elsa said he was only a shadow of his old self, had fascinated her, and Carla was the only lady of their whole acquaintance whom she thoroughly disliked. She too began to think that the union of such a dissimilar couple could not possibly bring happiness, that Ottomar indeed was already unhappy. Added to this was the uncomfortable state of affairs which according to Elsa had certainly existed even before the betrothal, between the father and son, but which now, when everything was apparently put straight, had grown much worse, and for which Elsa could discover no reason excepting Ottomar's still doubtful, perhaps desperate, financial condition. Meta had been taken also to see the Baroness Valerie, had learned to sympathise with Elsa in her feeling for the interesting, and evidently most unhappy woman, and here too stood with Elsa on the threshold of a dark and terrible mystery. What were the relations between this woman and the man whom she must have passionately loved, when she sacrificed to him what is most dear to a woman; whom she must love still, as she still made such sacrifices to him, sacrifices which yet seemed to be so difficult to her! Had she not again and again said to Elsa that she could no longer live without Elsa's love, or without her brother's forgiveness? And yet in Giraldi's presence she did not venture to show the smallest sign of love to Elsa, she did not venture to fulfil the condition imposed by the General, if there was to be any questions between him and her of a real reconciliation, of anything more than a mere superficial renewal of social intercourse--did not venture to separate from Giraldi, but seemed rather to stand now as ever under the absolute dominion of that hateful man!
"It is a dreadful state of things of course," said Meta; "but I do not see why you are to wear out your bright young life over it. Dear me! there is something of the kind, after all, in every family. I do not like my sister-in-law at all; my brother is a true Strummin, always jolly and light-hearted, and she is a real wet blanket, who drives the poor man wild with her dry matter-of-factness and perpetual considerations. And as for one's uncles and aunts--there I really may speak. Uncle Malte--at Grausewitz, you know, ten miles from us--we only see once in three years, and then he and papa quarrel dreadfully; Uncle Hans--he was a soldier, went into the Austrian service later, and afterwards into the Brazilian--we have not heard of him these six years; Aunt Gusting--who married a Baron Carlström in Sweden--has grown so fine that she only stayed half a day with us when she came to Strummin last autumn; she wrote afterwards that the combined smell of tobacco-smoke and plum-jam had been too disagreeable to her, and I could tell you a thousand other heart-breaking stories of our family. My papa always says: 'If a man is to be responsible for all his relations, there is an end of all pleasure.'" So spoke Meta to comfort her friend, as she plaited her long red-gold hair, of which she was rather vain now since Signor Giraldi had said, at a large party at Aunt Valerie's, that it was of the true Titian colour; or sat prattling coaxingly by the side of Elsa's bed as she had done on the first evening at Golmberg. Meta often recurred to that evening. "It had been the birthday of their friendship," said Meta; and the sight of Count Golm, whom they met at every party, and who had even lately once or twice joined their family circle at tea-time, kept the dear remembrance always fresh. But though Meta seemed inclined to be always indulging in recollections, she had no idea of doing so in reality, and her supposition that Elsa did not care a bit about the Count had been confirmed every time she saw the two together; but when she spoke of all that had happened at Golmberg, of the evening meal and the morning walk, it was quite natural, quite unavoidable that amongst others a name should be mentioned which Elsa never voluntarily allowed to pass her lips, and which Meta was convinced sounded day and night in Elsa's heart. Just because it never passed her lips. "There must be a reason for that," said Meta to herself; "and also for his never appearing here where he has been invited and, as I hear from Aunt Sidonie, was so kindly and even warmly received; and the reason must be one and the same, and can only be a sorrowful one, and that must be why Elsa is so sad." But any remaining doubt of the justice of this conclusion vanished when one day, quite accidentally--she had not been looking for it, really not, but her clothes had the most obstinate disposition to get mixed up with Elsa's--she felt a hard substance in the pocket of the blue tarletane dress that Elsa had worn the evening before at the Sattelstädts', which she took at first for a purse, and as she did not quite trust the lady's-maid she thought it best to take it out; and when she had taken it out she found to her great surprise that it was a pocket-compass in a pretty little ivory box. And in the inside of the box was engraved in very small, but quite legible, golden letters, a certain name which Elsa seemed quite to have forgotten. Meta had thought that as wisdom and discretion were now a point of honour with her, she could not do better than keep silence as to her discovery; had closed the box again--not without a most indiscreet smile--slipped it back into the pocket, and sat down in the window to write to her mamma, and was so deeply absorbed in her writing that she never looked up once when Elsa, who had only gone to look after her household affairs, returned and walked up and down the room two or three times without saying a word, each time coming a little nearer to the tarletane dress, which was hanging carelessly over the back of a chair; and at last--Meta had again got into trouble with her writing and could not of course look up--took the dress from the chair and hung it up in the wardrobe. And in doing so the case must have fallen out, though Meta heard nothing drop; at any rate, there was nothing now in the pocket, as Meta assured herself when Elsa again went out--not by accident this time. "I must know how matters stand," said Meta, "for her sake!" During the next few days Meta was most palpably false to her rule. Very contrary to her custom, she was silent and absent in society, and, on the other hand, exhibited a most indiscreet curiosity towards the servants concerning the circumstances and customs of the neighbours, particularly of the Schmidts, carrying her indiscretion even so far as to talk of her approaching departure, and that it was high time to pay various visits to friends of her parents whom she had most shamefully neglected until now. She did, in fact, go out several times without Elsa, and on the afternoon of the third day in particular disappeared for several hours, and, though she came back to tea, was so extraordinarily agitated that even Aunt Sidonie observed it, and Elsa began to be seriously uneasy. But she was horrified when, both having retired earlier than usual, Meta flung her arms round her, and with a flood of tears exclaimed, "Elsa, Elsa! you need have no more fear or trouble! I swear it to you by what is to me most sacred--by our friendship--he loves you! I know it from his own lips!" The first effect of these words did not seem to be that wished and hoped for by Meta, for Elsa too burst into tears; but Meta, as she held her friend in her arms, and pressed Elsa's head against her bosom, felt that her tears, however hot and passionate, were not tears of grief; that the dull anguish that had so long oppressed Elsa's poor heart had been removed at last, and that she might be proud and happy to have done this service to her friend, and broken the spell.
"And now let me tell you how I set about it," said she, as she drew Elsa down to the sofa beside her and took her hands in hers. "The whole difficulty, you see, was in speaking to him; for how could I speak to a man who never comes here, whom we never meet anywhere, either in society or in the streets, although we live next door to each other, and whom one cannot visit, even with the best intentions in the world? So I laid myself out to hear what the servants had to say. August gave me the most information; he is some sort of cousin to the old servant over the way, and I heard from him, in addition to what I knew already, that he always spends the morning at work in his room, and the afternoon in the studio of a sculptor called Anders, who is 'modulating' him, according to August. I thought it might be modelling, although for my part I did not know what that was either. Well, perhaps you will remember that on Thursday evening, at your Aunt Valerie's, there was a great discussion about art, and Signor Giraldi repeatedly mentioned Herr Anders, and that he had long intended to visit Herr Anders some day in his studio, and look at his newest production, since, unfortunately, the Satyr and Cupid was already sold. I hardly paid any attention at the time, but now I remembered it all word for word, and my plan was made. I paid a visit yesterday to Aunt Valerie, brought the conversation again round to art, and said how immensely I should like to see a sculptor at work for once, and would Signor Giraldi take me some day to a studio, and if possible to that of Herr Anders, because he lived so near us and my time was getting so short now? Signor Giraldi, I must allow him that, is more courteous than any of the other gentlemen, so he was ready at once; and your aunt agreed to go too, but only, I thought, because Signor Giraldi wished it. And I was right; for when this afternoon, punctually at four o'clock--that was the time settled--you are not angry with me now, are you, that I ran away from you?--I went there. Signor Giraldi received me alone. I must put up with him--your aunt had got a headache; all said with his polite smile that you know so well. But his eyes looked wickedly dark: I thought at once, 'There has been a scene.' I was dreadfully sorry, and the thought of making the expedition alone with Signor Giraldi was not particularly consoling; but you were in question, and I would have gone through the Abruzzi with Rinaldini--keeping my eyes open, you know. However, it was not so bad after all, for just as we were going out, who should appear but your heavenly aunt, with red eyes, alas! and looking very ill, but dressed and ready to go out. Signor Giraldi kissed her hand--Ottomar himself could not have done it so well--and whispered a few words in Italian at which your aunt smiled. I tell you, he can twist her round his little finger. So out we went; and now pay attention, you dear, sweet, darling creature!" Here the two friends embraced each other tearfully, till Meta, in her wisdom, sobbed out: "I am sure I do not know why you are crying, and you do not know either, you see; and if you get so excited and spoil the thread of my story I cannot tell it properly, you see! So now, were you ever in a studio? Of course not. Imagine to yourself a room, like our church at Strummin--you do not know it, by the way; imagine, then, a room as wide and high as you please, and the whole high wide room full--no, it is indescribable, particularly for a young girl. I assure you I did not know sometimes where to turn my eyes; but he--no, you really must be a little sensible now--he helped me safely over everything, and only took me about wherever it was quite, or at least very nearly proper; and then we had--oh, dear! I had arranged everything so nicely while we were at tea, and now I have forgotten it all. I only know that when we came in, quite unexpectedly, you know, he jumped up from his chair as if he had been electrified, and turned quite red with pleasure; and when at last we were able to say a few words quietly together, he said nothing but, 'Fräulein von Strummin! how is it possible! how is it possible!' Dear me, Elsa, it was really quite unnecessary for him to say anything more; I knew all about it now! But of course we did not stop there. I had to tell him how it was possible, and that I had been here for a fortnight with you--and--you must not think, Elsa, that I was foolish or indiscreet--we talked about you, of course, and why he never showed himself now--I was obliged to ask that! And then he said, 'How gladly I would come I need not assureyou'--with an emphasis on theyou, Elsa, you know--'unfortunately'--now listen, Elsa!--'there are circumstances so powerful that with the best will in the world we cannot set them aside; and I beg you to believe that I suffer more from these circumstances than I can or dare say.' And then he passed his hand across his brow and said, 'I will certainly come once more, however, before I go away.' 'Where?' 'I had a letter yesterday evening from'--you will never guess, Elsa; he had a letter from the dear President, and--only think, Elsa!--he really has got the post of Superintendent of Pilots at Wissow--at Wissow, Elsa! I really did not know what to say for joy, but he read my feelings in my face, and smiled and said, 'We shall be almost neighbours, then, Fräulein von Strummin.' 'And we will be neighbourly,' said I. 'That we will,' said he. 'And if we ever get a visit from Berlin,' said I--'And you honour me with an invitation,' said he--'you will come?' said I. And then he said,--no, then he said nothing, Elsa; but he pressed my hand! There, Elsa, take it back, for it was not meant for me, but for you, you dear, dear sweet thing!" The two friends held each other in a long embrace, and then there ensued a searching investigation of the important question: What could Reinhold have meant by "circumstances!"
"We shall never get to the bottom of it," said Meta at last; "the circumstances are just the circumstances that you are called Elsa von Werben and he is called Reinhold Schmidt, and that you are a wealthy heiress and might if you pleased marry the richest and most distinguished man, and that he is poor; and wife of the Superintendent of Pilots certainly does not sound so well as baroness or countess. Perhaps he has heard, too--people hear everything in Berlin--that you would lose your inheritance if you followed the dictates of your heart, and so he really is right in talking of 'circumstances,' dreadful circumstances." Elsa agreed with her in it all, but still could not see any reason why he had not come again to see them, and why even her father apparently avoided his name. She would confess now for the first time that three days ago she had been rejoicing exceedingly at the thought of the Sattelstädts' party, because she knew that Reinhold had also been invited, and even there he had sent an excuse--a proof how he avoided every possibility of meeting her even on neutral ground.
"I will get to the bottom of it," said Meta.
"How would it be possible?" Meta laughed; "I never do anything by halves, to-morrow I shall go there again. Will you come with me?"
"Meta!"
"You would not do, either," said Meta; "it must be an old lady, and a lady of some position. We have got one, however; tomorrow morning I shall pay her a visit, and to-morrow afternoon, as I said, we will begin."
"But for goodness' sake, Meta, what are you talking about?" Meta said it ought to have been a surprise; but she could not manage it under three sittings at the best, and she could not keep it secret so long, so that after all it might be better to confess everything at once.
"We were obliged, you see," said Meta, "to break off our conversation at last, and take a little notice of the others, who, meanwhile, had been wandering about the studio and talking Italian together, which Herr Anders speaks beautifully, Signor Giraldi says. There was an Italian there too, such a handsome man, with a paper cap on his raven-black hair. 'They all wear paper caps on account of the marble dust,' said Herr Anders, who certainly is not handsome himself. I never could have believed that an artist, and such a great one as he is said to be, could look so little dignified and be so small. And when you hear him speak, you cannot believe it at all; for the way he chatters, Elsa, is just like me, you know; and he laughs, Elsa, I cannot describe how he laughs, so that one laughs too with all one's heart only to see and hear him laugh. You never saw anything so funny, excepting his little curly poodle, which is just as funny as himself. We were standing then before Reinhold's portrait--round, you know, and raised--in relief they call it, and such a likeness! fit to be kissed, I assure you.' 'For whom is that?' asked I. 'For the future wife of the original,' said Herr Anders; 'she can wear it on a black velvet ribbon round her throat as a locket.' Just think, Elsa, what nonsense! a locket as large as a small carriage-wheel! he always talks like that. 'It is a study for that design,' said Reinhold. So then we looked at the designs--exquisite, I assure you. A battle, that would suit your papa! and 'Ambulance preparations,' with an old gentleman sitting behind a table, and a blind girl coming up with her gifts--I nearly cried when I saw that, and your aunt had tears in her eyes--and other women and girls. 'How delightful to be one of them,' cried I, quite from the bottom of my heart. 'You might have that pleasure at any moment, and give me the greatest possible satisfaction at the same time,' said Justus--that is his Christian name--funny one, is not it? 'How so?' said I. 'Look, here is a splendid place still,' said he--he says splendid, you must know, at every third word--'for a really bright cheerful face, such as I have been wanting for a long time, because the thing was getting too sentimental to please me, only I had no good model for it; do, please, be my model!' Dear me, Elsa, I did not know in the least what that might be, and as I told you before, there were some wonderful things in the studio; but I just looked at your Reinhold, and he said, 'Yes, do it,' with his eyes, like that, you know! and so I said quite boldly, 'Yes, I will do it;' and Signor Giraldi said that a queen might envy me the honour of being immortalised in such a work of art, and so the day after to-morrow I am to be immortalised!" Elsa could have listened all night long; but Meta, who had gone through such an eventful day, and had never quite got over the habit of being tired to death at ten o'clock at latest, could hardly keep her eyes open while she talked, so Elsa put her to bed and kissed the good little thing, who put her arms round her neck and murmured sleepily: "Is it not, Elsa--blue tarletane--compass--one more kiss!" and before Elsa had drawn herself up again was fast asleep.
Meta carried out her heroic design without allowing herself to be intimidated by anything, even by Aunt Rikchen's spectacles, "And they are no joke," said Meta, when in the evening she reported the result of the first sitting. "I could easier hold out against Baroness Kniehreche's eye-glasses. Behind those there is nothing but a pair of old blind eyes, of which I feel anything but fear; but when Aunt Rikchen allows her spectacles to slip to the end of her nose, she then begins really to see so clearly, that one would feel anxious and uneasy if one had not so good a conscience. And do you know, Elsa, that something particular must have occurred between you and the Schmidts--what, I am quite in the dark about, as the good lady mixes everything together higgledy-piggledy; but she is very angry with you Werbens, as papa is with the Griebens, our neighbours, who are always trespassing on his boundaries, he says; and you must have been trespassing on the Schmidts, and that is the reason, you may depend upon it, why Reinhold has got so distant. We shall hear nothing from him; but Aunt Rikchen never can keep anything to herself, and we are already the best of friends. She says I am a good girl, and that after all I really had nothing to do with it, and the dove who brought the olive branch from the earth did not know either what it had in its beak: and then I saw that Reinhold, who was in the studio with me, looked at her, and Herr Anders also looked quite grave, and glanced again at Reinhold. They three know something, that much is clear, and I will find it out, you may depend upon it." But Meta did not find it out, and could not do so, as Aunt Rikchen did not herself know the exact state of affairs, and the others were most careful to keep her in ignorance. Meta's communication therefore by no means contributed to Elsa's peace of mind, and if Elsa had at first, at least, had the happiness of hearing of Reinhold through Meta, how he had come to the studio and kept her company for a long time, and what he had said, and how he had looked, even this source of consolation was now decreasing, and seemed gradually to be drying up altogether. One day he had scarcely been there for five minutes, another time only just passed through the studio, a third time Meta had not seen him at all, a fourth time she could not even say whether she had seen him or not. Elsa thought she knew the meaning of this apparent negligence. Meta had found out something which she could not tell her, or had in some other way become convinced of the hopelessness of her love; and the ample details which she gave from her other experiences and observations in the studio, only served to conceal her embarrassment. It was therefore with a very divided heart that Elsa heard how Meta daily grew in favour with Aunt Rikchen, who was really a most excellent old lady, and whose heart was in the right place, if her spectacles did always get crooked, or slipped to the end of her nose. And how there was something especially touching to her in the good lady, for she herself would look just like that fifty years hence. But far more touching to her was a lovely young blind girl, who now came every day, because Herr Anders wished to bring the two together in one group. "When she spoke it was just as if a lark were singing high up in the blue sky on a Sunday mornings when all is still in the fields; and Justus said that Nature had never before produced such a contrast as she and Cilli made, and if he succeeded in reproducing it, no one could speak to him again save hat in hand. There was also next to Justus's studio another which aroused all her curiosity, because the owner of it never allowed herself to be seen, and she could form no idea of what a lady could be like who modelled in clay or hammered at the marble, least of all of such a beautiful, elegant lady as Justus said Fräulein Schmidt was, for you know, Elsa, a sculptor looks like a baker, only that he has clay in his fingers instead of dough, and is powdered with marble-dust instead of flour, and you would hardly take such a queer-looking creature for a respectable gentleman, much less for a great artist, and Justus says the one who looks cleanest and most elegant in spite of his working blouse, and is handsomer than any one I ever saw in my life, is no true artist, as he can do nothing more than point and block out; but you, poor child, do not know what pointing is. Pointing, you must know, is when you take a thing like a stork's bill, you know--" And then followed a very long and very complicated explanation, out of all which Elsa only gathered Meta's desire to talk of everything excepting what alone lay near her own heart. "The work will soon be finished," said Elsa to herself, "and the whole result of the fine plan will be that I can no longer consider Reinhold's holding back as a mere chance," But the work did not seem likely to be finished.
"Such a countenance had never before come under his notice," said Justus. "You might as well model the spring clouds, which every moment change their form." And again, when the portrait for the bas-relief was finished, "You can have no idea how dreadfully absurd I look, Elsa, like a Chinese!" Justus had begun to work at the completion of the "Ambulance preparations." "And I cannot leave the poor man in the lurch after all his trouble, for you know, Elsa, it is no longer a question of the head only--that is done--but of the whole figure, the attitude, gesture, in a word, a new subject, you know; but I really believe, poor child, you do not know what a subject is. A subject is when a man has no idea what he shall make, and then suddenly sees something, where in reality there is nothing to see--say a cat or a washing-tub--" This was the longest, but also the last explanation which Meta gave to her friend out of the fulness of her newly-acquired knowledge. For the next few days Elsa had more than usual to do in the household, and another matter imperiously claimed her attention. The final conference over the future management of the Warnow estates took place at her father's house, after two months of discussion backwards and forwards over it, and the three votes of Herr von Wallbach, Councillor Schieler, and Giraldi, as the Baroness's proxy, in opposition to the General's single voice--who recorded his dissentient view in a minute--had determined the sale of the whole property at the earliest possible opportunity, and Count Axel von Golm had been accepted as the purchaser in the event of his agreeing to the conditions of sale settled at the same by the trustees. Her father appeared after the long conference paler and more exhausted than Elsa had ever seen him.
"They have done it at last, Elsa," he said. "The Warnow property, which has been two hundred years in the possession of the family, will be sold and cut up. Your aunt Valerie may justify it if she can, since she and she alone is to blame that an old and honourable family falls miserably to the ground. Had she been a good and faithful wife to my friend--but what use is it harping upon bygone things? It is folly in my own eyes, how much more so then in those of others, to whom the present is everything! And I must confess the gentlemen have acted quite in the spirit of the age, cleverly, rationally, and in your interests. If the results are as brilliant as the Councillor flatters himself, you will be at least twice as rich as before. It is very unnatural, Elsa, but I hope he triumphs too soon. The Count--whom he proposes as purchaser--can only pay the outrageous sum named--for the entire property is really scarcely worth half a million, let alone a whole million--if he is certain that so great a burden will be immediately lifted off his shoulders; that is to say, if the scandalous project is carried out, the danger and folly of which I so strongly urged with the help of the staff and Captain Schmidt. If it does, however, come to anything, if the concession is granted, it would be an affront to that small authority which I can lay claim to, but which I do claim, so that I should look upon it in the same light as if I had been passed over in the approaching promotions. I should at once send in my resignation. The decision must be made soon. For Golm it is a question of life and death. He will either be utterly ruined or a Crœsus; and I shall be his Excellency or a poor pensioner--all quite in the spirit of the age, which is always playing a game of hazard. Well, God's will be done! I can only win, not lose, since no one and nothing can rob me of the best and highest--my clear conscience--and the knowledge that I have always stood to the old colours, and have acted as a Werben should act." So said the father to Elsa in a state of agitation, which, hard as he tried to control it, quivered and broke out in his words, and in the very vibrations of his deep voice. It was the first time that he had given her such a proof of his confidence, as to let her be a witness of a struggle which formerly he would have fought out in silence in his proud soul. Was it chance? Was it intentional? Was it but the outpouring of the overflowing vessel? Or did her father suspect or know her secret? Did he mean to say to her, "Such a decision may soon be awaiting you also. I trust and hope that you, too, will stand to the colours which are sacred to me, that you also will prove yourself a Werben." This had taken place in the morning. Meta, after another sitting, had unexpectedly received an invitation to dinner from a friend of her mother's. She should not return till the evening. For the first time Elsa scarcely missed her friend. She was glad to be alone, and to be able to give way to her thoughts in silence. They were not cheerful, these thoughts. But she felt it a duty to think them out, so as to see her way clearly if possible. She thought she had succeeded, and found in it a calm satisfaction, which, as she said to herself, was truly her whole compensation for all she had renounced in secret. And in this resigned frame of mind she received with tolerable composure the news which Meta brought on her return home, which otherwise would have filled her with sorrow, that Meta was going--must go. She had found at the lady's to whom she had gone a letter from mamma, in which mamma made such terrible lamentations over her long absence, that she could not do otherwise than go at once--that was to say, the first thing tomorrow morning. What she felt she would not and could not say. It was an extraordinary frame of mind, in any case, as whilst she seemed to be drowned in tears, she broke into a smile the next moment, which she in vain attempted to suppress, until the smiles again merged into tears; and so she went on for the rest of the evening. The next morning this state of mind had reached such a pitch that Elsa became really uneasy about the extraordinary girl, and begged her to postpone her journey until she was somewhat calmer. But Meta stood firm. She was quite determined, and Elsa would think her quite right if she knew all; and she should know all, but by letter; by word of mouth she could not tell her without dying of laughter, and she did not wish to die just yet, for reasons which she also could not tell her without dying of laughter. And so she carried on the joke till she got into the carriage, in which August was to take her to the station. She had absolutely forbidden any one else to accompany her, "for reasons, Elsa, you know, which--there! you will see it all in the letter, you know, which--good-bye, dear, sweet, incomparable Elsa!" And off drove Meta. In the evening August, not without some solemnity, gave Elsa a letter which the young lady had given him at the last moment before starting, with strict injunctions to deliver it punctually twelve hours later, on the stroke of nine in the evening. It was a thick letter, in Meta's most illegible handwriting, from which Elsa with difficulty deciphered the following:
"6 o'clock p.m.
"Dearest Elsa,
"Do not believe a word of what, when I return home, I--ah! that is no use. You will not read this letter till--I write it here at Frau von Randon's, so as to lose no time--August will give it to you when I am gone. Well, it is all untrue! My mother has not written at all. For the last week I have deceived and imposed upon you abominably, as since then I have no longer been on your behalf, and it would have been quite useless if I had; for it is now clear to me that your Reinhold has discovered long since how matters stood with us, and kept out of the way, even before we ourselves had a suspicion; for you may believe me, Elsa, that when two men are such good friends, they stand by one another in such matters as well as we girls could. And before dear blind Cilli we did not think it necessary either to have any reserve, because she always smiled so merrily when we teased each other; and then she could not see, and in such cases, you know, the eyes play a great part. It began, indeed, with the eyes, for till then everything had gone on quite properly; but when he came to them he said, 'I shall now have an opportunity of finding out exactly what colour your eyes are; I have been puzzling my brains about it all this time.' I maintained they were yellow, Aunt Rikchen said green, he himself brown; and Cilli, to whom the decision was left, said she was certain they were blue, because I was so cheerful, and cheerful people always had blue eyes. So we went on joking about it; and every day he began again about my eyes, and as you cannot very well talk about eyes without looking into them, I looked into his eyes while he looked in mine, and--I don't know whether you have made the same discovery, Elsa, but when one has done so for a few days, one begins to see more and more clearly--quite down to the bottom of them--quite curious things, I can tell you, which makes one turn hot and cold, and one often does not know whether to laugh and to give the man who looks at you like that a box on the ear, or to burst into tears and fall on his neck.
"I had felt like this already once or twice, and to-day again, only rather worse than before. The assistants had gone to dinner, and Aunt Rikchen to see after her household affairs; there were only he and I, and Cilli, and Justus wished to go on working if we did not mind, that he might finish once for all. But he did not work so industriously as usual, and because I saw that, I also did not sit so still as usual; and we--that is, he and I--played all sorts of tricks with Lesto, who must lie down and pretend to be dead, and who barked furiously at me when I pretended to beat his master, and other nonsense, until we suddenly heard the sound of the door shutting which leads to the garden, and--good gracious, Elsa! how can I tell you?--Cilli had gone away without our having noticed it. We thought we must have gone rather too far then, and so became quite quiet--as still as mice--so that you might have heard a pin fall; and I was so embarrassed, Elsa--so embarrassed, you know--and getting every moment more so, when he suddenly knelt down right before me--my knees were trembling so, that I had sat down--and again looked so into my eyes, and I--I was forced to, Elsa--I asked quite softly what he meant. 'I mean,' said he--but also quite softly--'that you must do what I ask you.' 'I shall box your ears if you do not get up directly,' said I, still more softly. 'I shall not get up,' said he, but so close to me that I could no longer box his ears, but instead fell upon his neck, upon which Lesto, who evidently thought that his master's life was in danger, began to bark furiously; and I, just to quiet Lesto and to make Justus get up off his knees, said 'Yes' to everything he asked--that I loved him, and would be his wife, and everything else that one says in such a terrible moment.
"And now only think, Elsa, Elsa! when, in the course of five minutes, we had quieted Lesto and were going out--as I said I had sworn to be discreet and to do you credit, and that I would not remain a second longer with so dangerous a man in so lonely a place, with all those dreadful marble figures--and as we went out arm-in-arm, Cilli suddenly stepped towards us from between two of the statues, herself as white as marble, but with the most heavenly smile on her sweet face, and said we must not be angry with her, as the door had shut itself and she could not get out, and she had heard all--her hearing was so acute, and there was such an echo in the studio. Oh, Elsa, I almost sank into the floor, for I think there had not been words only. But that divine creature, as if she had seen how red I grew, took me by the hand and said I need not be ashamed; there was no need to be ashamed of a true, honourable love; and I did not yet know how happy I was, how proud I ought to be; but I should learn it gradually, and then I should be grateful for my proud happiness, and love Justus very, very much, as an artist needed far, far more love than other men. And then she took Justus's hand, and said, 'And you, Justus, you will love her like the sunshine, without which you cannot live.' And as she said so, a ray of sunshine fell through the studio window right upon the dear thing, and she looked transfigured--so marvellously beautiful, with the poor blind eyes turned upwards, that at last I could not help crying, and she had great difficulty in quieting me. And then she said: 'You must not remain here in this state of agitation; you must at once return home and tell your mother, and no one before her, for my knowing it is a mere chance for which you are not to blame.' And I promised her all she wished, and I feel now how right the dear angel was, as I am quite mad with delight, and should certainly have done some folly for very joy; and that I must not do, since I have sworn to be sensible and to do you credit. I shall start to-morrow morning, and shall be home to-morrow evening at eight o'clock, by half-past shall have told mamma all, and at nine August will give you this letter, as after mamma you are, of course, the next. I told Cilli so at once, and she quite agreed to it; and her last words were, 'Pray to God that your friend may be as happy as you are now.' And I will do so, Elsa, you may depend upon it; and in all other respects also depend upon your ever loving, wise
"Meta.
"P.S.--Of course, 'he' is an exception to the 'all.' I am very sorry, but it cannot be helped, you know."
"The dear, foolish child!" said Elsa, as she finished the letter, with a deep sigh; "I congratulate her with all my whole heart." And as she sat there and thought over how wonderfully it had all come about, and how happy the two must be in their love, her eyes became more fixed, her breathing ever harder, and then she covered her eyes with her hands, bent her head upon Meta's letter, and cried bitterly.
Three days later--the autumn sun was going down, and it was already getting dusk in the large room--Giraldi sat at his writing-table near the window, reading the letters which had arrived for him. A considerable number had accumulated in the course of the day, which he had spent since early morning in important business in the town, for the sale of the property to the Count had taken place to-day; there were political letters from Paris and London, ecclesiastical matters from Brussels and Cologne, a detailed report from a trusty friend at Strasburg upon the state of affairs in Alsace-Lorraine, business letters of the most varied kind--English, French, Italian, German. Giraldi read one as easily as the other; he even made his marginal notes always in the same language as his correspondent wrote in. "It grows and grows," murmured he: "we are not far now from the crisis; and how delightful it is to hear from the mouths of others as extraordinary news, things that could not have happened without us. Unfortunately they are beginning to find out here the importance of the untitled and undecorated Signor, the mere private secretary to a lady of rank, and the best part of my working powers will be lost. So long as one is a nobody one can hear everything and hear it correctly; but the moment people begin to point at one, one learns very little, and that little wrong. That is the curse of royalty." He took up a letter, which he had before thrown on one side, taking it from its shape to be one of the begging letters which he constantly received from poor fellow-countrymen, or from nativechevaliers d'industrie. "It is a priest's hand," he said. "Ah! from my correspondent at Tivoli. Well! the worthy man has kept me a long time waiting for an answer." He hastily opened the letter, ran through the contents, and then leaned back in his chair with a look of annoyance.
"H'm!" he muttered, "the old fox will not fall into the trap. He has understood me, that is clear. He admits that there are many wonderful dispensations of Providence, he even hints that the boy's birth is shrouded in mystery, which means, in Italian, that he is not the son of his parents, only that circumstances are too much against my paternity. Idiot! He must himself know that best; or is he not so stupid? Have I not offered him enough? I ought to have left the price to himself. I would pay anything. I----" He had got up, and slowly paced up and down through the darkening room. "That is to say, I do not care to throw away my money, and the first experiment has miserably failed. Her reluctance to see the boy was decided enough, and she will not even discover a trace of likeness; says he is the type of the Roman peasants, such as are found at Albano, and Tivoli, and everywhere. Not even his beauty will she allow. There is no soul in the countenance, only the commonplace, brilliant stamp of a strong, sensual nature. And to that she holds with an obstinacy which she has never shown in anything else. It seems that the mother's instinct cannot be deceived. Bah! what deception cannot be carried out, if a man only sets about it in the right way! I have been too hasty, that is what has startled her. I must allow that I have been, too sanguine, must play at resignation, and then perhaps like a woman, out of sheer caprice, she will come round herself--
"What is it, François?"
"The lady in black, monsieur."
"Once for all, she is to be shown in to me by the other passage."
"They are working in the other passage to-day, monsieur."
"Never mind. You will take her back by the other passage."
"Very well, monsieur; can she come in?"
"One moment. Madame dines at home. I dine out, at Herr von Wallbach's--the carriage for me at half-past five. Let madame know, and that at a quarter-past five I will come and take leave of her. Has Signor Antonio been here in the course of the day?"
"No, monsieur."
"No one else is to be admitted. Let the lady come in." Giraldi did not get up as the lady entered, and now only gave her a sign to take a place near him at the writing-table.
"I was expecting you. How are we getting on?"
"No better than on the first day."
"That is bad."
"It is very wearisome," said Bertalda, throwing back her veil, "very wearisome. I have come to tell you so; I am sick of the whole thing." She lay back in her chair, with a look of ill-humour, knocking the tips of her boots against each other.
"Bah!" said Giraldi, "how much do you want?" and he stretched out his hand to a casket which stood before him on the table.
"I want nothing," said Bertalda. "I told you at once, the first time you sought me out, that I only did it out of pity for poor Werben, and because I have a weakness for him, and because I wish to annoy that fine Philip, who behaved so abominably to Victorine, and I wish from my heart that his sister should be no better."
"I have told you already that it was not from Herr Schmidt that I learnt that Herr von Werben is visiting you again."
"Then you heard it from Count Golm, and I cannot abide him; he will have to wait a long time before I give him a good word, and now----"
"My dear child, permit me to observe that you are not very judicious," said Giraldi, smiling. "You have half a dozen personal reasons for doing what you are doing; I pay you besides, and beg you moreover to consider me at your disposal in that matter, and you want to give the whole affair up because----"
"It bores me! I can bear anything except being bored."
"What is it that bores you? Explain that to me."
"What is there to explain?" cried Bertalda; "it is just tiresome. If one is foolishly in love with a man, and he comes and weeps in one's arms, and one hears from others why he weeps, why should one not do him a kindness and help him to gain the woman he loves? Why, goodness me, there is nothing very hard in that; I am a good-natured creature, and if there is a little acting to be done--why one learns to cut a few capers in the ballet, and it is all the more amusing. And the acting you suggested was very pretty so far, and there is no great harm in standing as a model for a couple of days, when there is nothing to be done but to hold up your bare arms, and half the time is spent in talking too; but on the third day one ought to be able to say, So-and-so is waiting for you at such a place, and make an end of it!"
"I gave you permission yesterday to hint at the real state of affairs."
"Oh yes, hint!" cried Bertalda. "I told her the whole story to-day. There!" Giraldi half started from his chair, but immediately recovered himself, and asked in his quiet way:
"What do you mean by the whole story, my dear child?"
"Why, that I am not a model, and that I have come on Herr von Werben's account--"
"Sent by Signor Giraldi----"
"What! as if I would have allowed myself to be sent if I had not chosen."
"Of your own accord then--so much the better! And how did she take it?" Bertalda burst into a ringing laugh.
"My goodness!" cried she, "it was a farce! She did not know whether to thank me on her knees, or to trample me under her feet. I think she mentally did first one and then the other, whilst with clasped hands, and crying as I never saw a girl cry before, she stood in front of me, and then raged about the room with uplifted arms, as I never saw any one rage before either. First she called me a saint, a penitent Magdalen, I don't know what all, and a moment after a hussy, a--well, I don't know what either. It went on so for at least an hour without pause, and the end of the story was----"
"That you were not to presume to return?"
"Heaven forbid! To-morrow I was to return, and then it would all begin over again, and it really is too wearisome, I say, and I shall not go there again to-morrow." Bertalda got up with one last energetic tap of her boots. Giraldi remained sitting, stroking his beard.
"You are right," he said; "do not go there again to-morrow, nor the next day; on the third day she will come to you." Bertalda bent forward to look more closely at the man, who said this with such certainty, as if he were reading it from a paper which lay on the table before him.
"Supposing, of course," continued Giraldi, "that you do not answer the letter which she will write to you on the second day, and that altogether you play at drawing back a little as a person whose kindness has been misunderstood, and so on. If you can and will do this we remain friends; if you will not--it is not well to make an enemy of me, believe me." Bertalda rose and went behind her chair, and leant both her elbows on the back.
"If I only knew," she said, "what you have to do with it all?"
"And if you knew?"
"Then I should know what to do myself. I am not afraid of you--what can you do to me? but I fear for poor Ottomar. I do not wish that any harm should happen to him." Giraldi got up also, seated himself sideways in the chair on which Bertalda leant, and took her hands in his.
"Good girl!" he said; "and if I swear to you that I am Ottomar's best friend, that he has no secrets from me, not even that of his debts; that it is I who have just now helped him up again, that it is from me that he has the hundred-thaler notes, of which, perhaps, one or two have found their way into your pocket; and if in case you will not believe me, I show it to you in black and white, in Ottomar's own hand, what would you say then?"
"Nothing at all," answered Bertalda. She had, while he still held her hands, come round the chair, and suddenly sat down on his lap, with her hands, which she now freed, stroking his soft black beard. "At most, that you are a charming uncle, such as are scarce, and that you deserve a kiss, and--there, you have one." She had wound her arms round his neck, and kissed him, first teasingly, then with a passion which seemed to surprise even herself, and which also deprived him for the moment of the full use of his faculties, so that he did not hear the knock at the door, and only let Bertalda slip off his knee when François was already in the room. Bertalda gave a shriek of surprise, and hastily drew her veil over her face.
"What do you want?" cried Giraldi hotly.
"Monsieur Antonio, monsieur!" said François in a whisper; "he begs so urgently."
"All right," said Giraldi. "Show mademoiselle out. I will let in the young man myself. I shall hear from you, mademoiselle. For the present, adieu." He walked hastily to the door of the anteroom, whilst Bertalda, conducted by François, rushed to another door leading into his bedroom, and from thence into the second corridor, and only opened it as Bertalda was on the point of disappearing behind the portière, one side of which François had drawn back for her. Antonio, who, standing close to the door and listening, had heard Bertalda's shriek, and whose mind was filled with the image of Ferdinanda, had immediately concluded that he recognised her voice, and at once stepped in; Bertalda could not so quickly get out. In her embarrassment she had run against the side of the portière which was down, and entangled herself in it, and it was a moment or two before, with François' help, she was free, long enough for the sharp-eyed Antonio to discover that the lady whom he was putting to flight was not Ferdinanda herself, but the mysterious unknown who had lately come so regularly to Ferdinanda's studio, and whom he had taken for an ambassador from his deadly enemy. So she did not come from him, but from here! And why should she run off so hastily the moment he was admitted? If the signor mentioned the lady--well, perhaps it was all right--he would try and trust him still, as heretofore; if he did not mention her, he would never believe another word that passed his lips--never! These thoughts flew through Antonio's mind as he made his bow; meanwhile Giraldi had recovered from his surprise, and taken his resolution. He had taken it for granted that Antonio, from the studio in which he worked, would remark the coming and going of the black-veiled lady to the other studio, and had consequently enjoined the utmost circumspection upon Bertalda. Antonio was not to learn who she was, least of all that she had any connection with him. Now, in consequence of the youth's hasty entry, the secret was within a hair's-breadth of escaping; but that he should have seen, or in any way recognised Bertalda, was quite impossible. The end of the great room was buried in almost total darkness, and as his own attention had been entirely centred on the door by which Antonio would enter, the delay in Bertalda's departure by the other had escaped his notice. "A second later would have been too late," he thought to himself, as he took the youth's hand and--now completely master of himself--said in his usual quiet, friendly tone:
"Welcome, my dear Antonio--no, no, my son--I am not consecrated yet." Antonio, bending low, had raised the hand which Giraldi had offered him to his lips. "The less you trust him the more submissive must you be," said Antonio to himself.
"You are sacred to me, signor," he said aloud. "The good Brother Ambrose, the benevolent guardian of my wretched youth, is not in my eyes more revered and sacred than you are."
"I am glad to hear it," answered Giraldi. "The best ornament of youth is a grateful disposition. As a reward for it I can impart to you the good brother's blessing. I have just received a letter from him. But of that later. First, as to your business here. Have you at last again seen and spoken with her?"
"Only seen, signor--as she left her studio just now to go home. I do not venture to speak to her. She talks, they say, to no one, and no one dares go into her studio except----"
"Her father, probably."
"A lady, signor, in black, and thickly veiled, who goes to her studio regularly every afternoon. The students take her to be a model." It must be decided now; Antonio's heart beat till Giraldi's answer came.
"A lady in black and thickly veiled," repeated Giraldi slowly, as if he was deeply considering the matter; "and only a model? That is surely very unlikely, and very suspicious. We must try to get to the bottom of this." He lied. It flashed like lightning through Antonio's mind that to this man he had confided his secret, the treason which he contemplated, his criminal desires, the very plan of his revenge; he had given all--all into his hands, as to the priest in the confessional, and he lied!
"I have tried to get to the bottom of it, signor," he said, "but in vain. As she comes and goes while our studio is full of men, I cannot watch her through the door, nor absent myself without causing a sensation. Yesterday I tried under some pretext, but I was too late. A carriage--not an ordinary cab, signor, but a fly--was standing a few yards from the house under the trees near the canal; the unknown got in, and vanished from me in a moment."
"He will be more cunning next time," thought Giraldi; "she must on no account go again."
"At what time does she come?" he asked.
"Between five and six at first; now, I suppose on account of greater security, between four and five."
"Good! To-morrow I will myself keep watch in my carriage; she shall not escape us, you may depend upon it. And now to continue, has nothing of importance transpired in the conversations between your maestro and the Captain? The name in question not been mentioned?"
"No, signor; on the contrary, since the young lady went away----"
"I know, three days ago."
"They have been very prudent, and speak so low, that it is impossible to catch more than a word here and there. But instead I have just found this letter, which the maestro received to-day and has read through at least a dozen times, and also showed it to the Captain, who came in the middle of the day."
"It was dangerous to steal a letter which awakens such interest."
"The maestro threw it into his desk, as he does all his letters, and when he went out, locked it up, and took the key with him; but I have long known how to open that frail lock without a key. To-morrow he will find the letter again in his desk."
"Who is it from?"
"From the young lady, I think. It is an abominable handwriting, signor."
"Give it to me!" Giraldi took the letter out of Antonio's hand, and stepped to the window to get the advantage of the last gleam of daylight. A superstitious dread ran through Antonio, as he saw the extraordinary speed with which the man at the window ran through the sixteen pages of the letter, of which he, who so prided himself on his knowledge of German, had hardly been able to read a line. How could he venture to enter into a struggle of cunning and skill with him, who saw through everything, knew everything as if he were in league with the evil one? And yet, one thing he did not know, that he would have pierced him with his dagger as he stood in the window, with the evening light shining like an aureole round his head with its black locks, did he venture to deceive and betray him, as he had undoubtedly deceived and betrayed all the world besides. Giraldi had read the last two pages more slowly than the first ones. He now read them over again. Then without saying a word, he lighted the candle which stood on his writing-table, sat down, and began as it appeared to copy out these two last pages. The pen flew over the paper almost as quickly as his eyes before over the pages. In a few minutes it was done, and he gave the letter back to Antonio. "There! now return it again to its place with the greatest care, and bring me every letter in the same handwriting. You will thereby be doing me the greatest service, and my gratitude will keep pace with your willingness to help me."
"I do what I do for your sake, signor," said Antonio; "without hope or expectation of reward. The only one for which I care, even you cannot give me."
"You think so," answered Giraldi. "Boy, what do you know of what I can or cannot do? I tell you that kings tremble when they feel that Gregorio Giraldi's hand is upon them; that the Holy Father in Rome even, only knows himself to be infallible so long as I am near him. And shall I not fulfil the desire of your heart? Not give into your arms that beautiful woman, whom you may possess at any moment you choose? Are you not young and handsome? Are you not strong and courageous? What is impossible to a handsome and young man who is strong and courageous, where a woman is in question? I tell you that the times of Saul are not yet gone by, who went out to seek his father's asses, and found a kingdom. The letter in your pocket might prove it to you. Do you fancy yourself worth less than that clumsy German sailor? Surely not. And he has won the love of a German maiden, to whom men of his position would not generally dare to lift their eyes. And now you! Do you not know that God has ever specially loved shepherds and shown Himself gracious to them? Have you never, as you drove your goats on the mountains near Tivoli, heard a voice out of the thundering cataracts of the Arno, or out of the sighing of the wind in the oak trees of Arsoli, which said, 'Poor sunburnt, ragged boy, in a few years you, a beautiful youth, dressed like the gentlemen who approach yonder in their smart carriages over the dusty roads, shall walk through streets of the capital of the northern barbarians, whose very names you do not yet know?' Believe me, my son, such voices may be heard by all, only one must understand them, as I have always understood those which speak to me. Or if you will not trust my guidance, let me speak to you through the mouth of the worthy man who protected your tender youth, and whom you may thank, that you do not still tend your goats. I had written to him about you, and how wonderful it was that you, favoured with these gifts of mind and body, should be of such low birth as are the people you have respected as your parents. And what does he reply?" Giraldi had seized the priest's letter, and read: "'A miracle, truly, my dear sir, but are we not surrounded by miracles, so that they often appear no miracles just because they are so near us? And has God lost His omnipotence because the serpent of doubt and unbelief lifts its head now higher than ever? Can He not breathe His Spirit into a clod if He will? make the dead to live again? lighten the darkness in which the origin of so many men, and--I must admit--of our good Antonio also, is enveloped? Can He not raise up for a man who stands solitary and pines for love, a dear relation in a seeming stranger?' Look, Antonio! there it stands, written in your honoured friend's own hand." He held out the letter to Antonio---just long enough for the youth to be certain that it really was his old preceptor's hand. He might not see what immediately followed; that according to all human calculation Antonio could not possibly be the son that Giraldi had so long lost, and whom he had so eagerly sought after, and still sought in spite of all disappointments, and for whose recovery no reward was too great. As if overcome with emotion, he had thrown the letter into the drawer and stretched out both his hands: "Now go, in God's name, my son, and remember that no father could more truly mean well towards you than I do!" Antonio bent down and kissed the outstretched hands, moved and conquered by the superior mental power of the man, his mind filled with a confusion of ambitious hopes and dazzling dreams of satisfied love, as quickly followed by the fear that all was but a dream and an illusion, and that this great magician was playing with him, as he himself as a boy had often, enough done with a bird fluttering on a string. He was gone. Giraldi touched the bell. François came in.
"I told you that no one was to come in, without exception!"
"Monsieur had always received the young man, and he was so pressing."
"It may pass for this time; the next time you commit such a blunder, you are dismissed without appeal--mind that." He locked his letter into his drawer.
"I will dress without assistance; see that the carriage is ready in ten minutes." He went into the next room through which Bertalda had previously taken flight. François shook his fist behind him, and then again smiled his fawning smile, as if he would not admit even to himself that he had ventured to threaten the mighty man.