Before Leo von Heydeck returned to his apartments he took a long walk in the park. He wished to be alone to hold communion quietly with himself, that he might come to a decision with regard to his future conduct. He knew that he had arrived at a crisis in his career.
Forced, against his inclination, by a stern father, Colonel von Heydeck, to embrace the military profession, he had, notwithstanding, become reconciled to it during the war with France, which he had entered into with patriotic enthusiasm, and in which he had greatly distinguished himself.
Esteemed and beloved by his comrades, he had never before now found himself in a position either to send or to receive a challenge. He had always considered duelling as a savage relic of mediæval barbarism; but the insult offered him intentionally in the presence of numerous witnesses, by Herr von Bertram, was certainly cause sufficient, if any such could exist, to justify the savage practice.
As he slowly sauntered along the secluded alleys of the park he weighed and pondered every argument for and against his yielding in this case to military prejudice. He had a hard struggle with himself to undergo, but by the time he reached his home he had made up his mind,--he would be true to his convictions and yield no jot to public opinion.
On the stairs he met his servant who surprised him with the intelligence that Colonel von Herwarth was in his apartment, where he had awaited him for a quarter of an hour.
Colonel von Herwarth, the commander of his regiment? What did this visit portend? Had he heard already of the scene at Büchner's?
Leo paused for an instant, and his heart beat undeniably faster. He foresaw that the ensuing conversation with the man who was alike his superior officer and his paternal friend would be of great importance to him; he must be perfectly prepared before it began. Once more he passed in mental review the reasons for the resolution he had taken. He never wavered; for the first time in his life an opportunity was offered him to step forward boldly and frankly in vindication of a principle. Firm in his purpose to do so he entered the room.
The colonel had not found the time spent in his young officer's room long. He had been much interested in what he found there, where there was nothing except the weapons, arranged upon a wall with an eye for artistic effect, to remind one that this was the abode of a soldier. The apartment might rather have been taken for a scholar's study or an artist's studio.
One side of the room was entirely covered with book-shelves, the contents of which would hardly have tempted the lovers of light reading, and the writing-table was loaded with books and papers in true scholarly disorder; while quantities of sketches in oil, framed and unframed, occupying every available spot upon the walls, and a large easel in the centre of the room, upon which was an unfinished picture, betrayed the artist.
Before this picture, a portrait of a beautiful girl, the colonel was standing, attentively surveying it, when Leo entered. The dress was only sketched in, but the face was nearly finished; at least so the colonel thought, as he admired the delicate features and the glorious black eyes that seemed to gaze into his own.
Leo's entrance aroused him from its contemplation; he turned and held out his hand. "I have been awaiting you for some time, Herr von Heydeck," he said; "but I do not regret the quarter of an hour spent here, since it has given me an opportunity of admiring your artistic skill. I knew you were fond of the brush, but I had no idea that you had reached such a pitch of perfection in the art. What a brilliant sketch this is! I am sure I have seen that face somewhere. Who is she? I surely know that girl."
"Scarcely, I think, colonel," Leo replied, unable to conceal a certain embarrassment. "It is but a daub,--just begun, and not at all like. You never would recognize the original from seeing this thing."
"And yet--and yet--I surely remember having seen that, young girl somewhere."
"Probably some chance resemblance, colonel. There is no trace of likeness in this portrait; it is only a slight sketch from memory. If I had known that I was to have the honour of a visit from you, I should not have left it upon the easel. Permit me to remove it."
He took the picture from the easel and leaned it with the face against the wall,--the colonel shook his finger at him, with a smile: "You are in a great hurry to hide it away. Have I, perchance, been indiscreet?"
"Not at all, colonel," said Leo, trying unsuccessfully to appear easy and unembarrassed. "I do not know the lady at all. I met her once in society, and hardly exchanged a couple of words with her."
"In spite of which she has made so profound an impression upon the artist that he has painted a charming portrait from memory. But I will not meddle with your secrets, my dear Heydeck, I have come upon other and serious business. You will guess what it is when I tell you that my nephew, Kuno, has been with me. He came to confide, not in Colonel von Herwarth, but in his uncle; and so I come to you, my dear Heydeck, not as your colonel and superior officer, but as your true friend, to discuss this miserable matter in which Herr von Bertram's brutal insults have entangled you. Give me your hand, Heydeck; I trust you are convinced that I have your welfare at heart!"
"I certainly am, colonel."
"And there is good reason why it should be so; not because you saved my life at Gravelotte at terrible risk of your own,--that was your duty, and I would have done the same in your place,--but because you are the best officer in my regiment, and a fast friend to that feather-headed nephew of mine, Kuno, whose admiration and affection for you prevent his getting into many a scrape. You see my friendship for you is rather selfish, but none the less genuine.
"To business, then! Kuno tells me that you have got into your head some romantic and entirely incomprehensible ideas about the immorality of duelling, and that in consequence you are in doubt as to calling out Herr von Bertram. Is this true, my dear Heydeck?"
"Not quite, colonel. I am no longer in doubt; I have decided: I shall not challenge Herr von Bertram."
The colonel, who had been pacing the room to and fro at Leo's side, suddenly stood still. "The devil you won't!" he exclaimed. "Why, it's worse than I thought! Kuno was right, then! Do you know the fate of an officer who allows himself to be accused of dishonourable conduct?"
"I do, colonel, and therefore I am resolved to send in my resignation immediately."
"Why, forty thousand dev---- No, no, I will not swear; I will be calm. Only tell me, are you stark, staring mad? Send in your resignation!--you, before whom there is the most brilliant career? You must not! 'Tis impossible!"
"I must, colonel, and I rely upon your help in the matter, for this is the only way in which mischief among my comrades can be prevented."
"But, deuce take it! why don't you send a bullet through that scoundrel Bertram, as any other brave officer would do, and settle the matter reasonably?"
"Because my principles forbid duelling. My mind is made up, colonel. Pray do not attempt to shake my resolution, for I give you my word of honour that I will not fight a duel."
"There it is!" cried the colonel, in despair. "All's over now! Unhappy, misguided young man, what have you done?"
"My duty, colonel; I but fulfil a sacred obligation. You, at least, will not believe that I am actuated by cowardice."
"Cowardice! You? I'll fight the man myself who accuses you of cowardice in my presence. Your courage has been proved a hundred times in France, as I can testify. No one can accuse you of cowardice,--that's not what vexes me; but you can't stay in the service for all that! What would become of the corps of officers if these cursed democratic ideas of yours were to find acceptance among us? But you have declared upon your honour that you'll not fight, and there's no use talking any more about it. You must send in your resignation, and I'll see that it's accepted. That's all I can do for you now. Sit down this moment and write it, and I'll take it with me and attend to it."
Leo did so. While the colonel walked up and down the room, muttering curses, not loud, but deep, upon the 'd----d democratic nonsense,' Leo wrote his resignation, and handed it to his superior officer.
The colonel read the paper through. "It is all in order," he said, "and shall be attended to. There is nothing else to be done now; but confound that scoundrel Bertram! and deuce take me if I don't find some way to reward him for his share in this business! I believe the dog knew your craze about duelling. Did you ever mention your cursed democratic ideas in his presence?"
"Of course he knows what my opinions are: we used to be friends."
"I thought so. The confounded coward could play the hero cheaply; but I've not done with him yet. He shall find it no joke to have driven my best officer from the service. But that will not bring you back again. I see well enough that with your principles you had better resign. And you had best leave K---- as soon as possible. Take a journey to get out of the way of all the gossip and fuss there will be. I'll give you a leave upon my own responsibility,--and goodbye. I can't help loving you, my dear fellow, though you are such a d----d democrat; and if ever you need a true friend, remember Oswald von Herwarth, who never will forget you at Gravelotte."
The old officer cleared his throat violently, and indignantly winked away a suspicious moisture from his eyes; then, pulling his cap low over his forehead, he stamped down-stairs without one more word of farewell.
Scarcely was Leo alone than he took up the picture which he had leaned against the wall, replaced it upon the easel, stepped backwards from it, and regarded it sadly. "So you send me out into the world!" he murmured. "It is your revenge upon me for my cowardly words of you in your absence; for it was cowardly so to do violence to myself. Your punishment is hard, but just. Now that I dare once more to gaze into the depths of those dark, girlish eyes, why are they not scornful and angry, but sad and dreamy?"
He stood for a while so lost in thoughts of the few moments he had spent in Eva's presence, and in contemplation of the picture, that he did not hear the door behind him open.
An aged officer, leaning heavily upon a stout bamboo cane, entered the room, and, standing still, gloomily surveyed the young man lost in revery before the picture; then as he glanced at a mirror hanging on the wall opposite the door, he saw reflected in its depths his own image and his son's. He was startled; the astonishing likeness between them, which he had never before admitted, struck him forcibly and painfully at the moment.
"So like, and yet so different!" the old man thought, "Yes, he is my son. I could not disown him if I would. My only son,--so like me,--and that he should disgrace our name,--'tis maddening!"
He stood for a moment silently watching his son, and then struck the floor violently with his bamboo cane. "Halloo, Herr Leo von Heydeck!" he cried. "Colonel von Heydeck requests the honour of a few words with you!"
Leo turned in surprise. "What, father, you here?" he asked. One glance at his father's gloomy face told him plainly enough that the old man was perfectly aware of the events of the last few hours, and had come to call his son to account. Confused and annoyed, Leo bent his looks upon the ground.
"You did not expect a visit from me?" the colonel asked, contemptuously. "You had indeed no right to do so, for old Colonel von Heydeck has never had anything to do with scoundrels!"
"Father!"
"Why, don't you like the word? I should not have thought you would notice it! I have just seen the Herwarths, uncle and nephew, and I know everything. 'Tis the second time a Heydeck has tamely borne such an insult,--first my vagabond of a brother, and now you, my only son!"
The old man sat down, and continued: "I was on my way here to remonstrate with you when I met your colonel; he told me you had declared upon your honour that you would fight no duel, and that there would be no use in anything I could say; that he had your resignation in his pocket, and was going to attend to it. He spoke warmly in your behalf,--my heart was touched by it; you have him to thank that I do not bestow my curse upon you, as once I did upon my coward of a brother, but that I am come to you to ask, 'What are you going to do now?'" The old man looked about him in his son's room, to which this was his first visit, and frowned, as he went on: "If you have one single spark of affection for your old father do not disgrace our name by a Heydeck's painting pictures for money. I know you will answer me that you cannot live on air, or beg, or steal, and that I cannot support you, since my pension barely suffices for my own wants. I know this is what you will say, but I have a proposition to make. Leo, you must marry!"
Certainly this proposition was the last that Leo expected from his father. "I marry?" he exclaimed, with a side-glance at the easel. "Never! How could I dream of it now when I am about to enter upon a new life, in which the struggle for existence will be hard enough with only one to provide for."
"All the more reason why this new life should never be sullied by any occupation unworthy a nobleman," the colonel replied, quite unmoved by his son's words, "Hear me quietly; we must understand each other, and I have much to do to-day besides. Your colonel has promised that your resignation shall find honourable acceptance. I myself will see to it that Herr von Bertram does not go unpunished for an insult offered to a Heydeck!"
"What do you mean, sir?"
"That's no affair of yours; you are not my guardian. If you claim a right to publish your convictions in direct opposition to universal opinion, I, old man as I am, surely have a right to do as honour bids me. I shall do so, and shall see that the name of Heydeck is not sullied; it is your part, as far as in you lies, to keep it clear from stain."
"What do you require of me?"
"Before I tell you I must, that you may understand me, give you some information concerning the past of a certain member of our family. You know that I have a brother of whom I have never spoken to you; I am going to do so now. We were two merry boys together,--Ferdinand two years younger than I,--and we were very fond of each other, although we were utterly dissimilar physically and mentally; he was a bookworm, excellent at learning, while I was a wild, wayward fellow, fonder of my rifle than of any book. When we left school he wanted to pursue his studies, while I was bent on entering the army. Our father was a stern, harsh man, and would not suffer any son of his to be a quill-driver. All Ferdinand's entreaties, and even the tears of our mother, whose favourite he was, were of no avail; he had to don the uniform. To the last moment he implored my father not to force him to embrace a profession which he hated, but my father contemptuously turned a deaf ear, and did not even bid him good-bye when he left us, nor indeed did I, for I was vexed with him for his womanish conduct.
"And so Ferdinand became a soldier, and the reports received of him from his colonel, an old friend of my father's, were extremely fair. He was no favourite in the corps of officers: he was too staid and grave, he was even accused of miserliness, but he did his duty, soon became ensign, passed a brilliant examination, and scarcely a year after entering the service gained his epaulettes, while I was two full years gaining mine.
"Several years went by; then we met on some great occasion. I had been delighted with the prospect of seeing him, but I soon found that we did not suit each other. He had grown more staid, I was wilder than ever,--no two brothers could be more different. All our comrades said so. I heard remarks of theirs about Ferdinand that made me furious, and yet I could do nothing to contradict them, for there was no positive expression of opinion in what was reported to me,--it mostly consisted of vague sneers from which I drew the worst conclusions.
"Ferdinand was as unpopular as possible; the officers of his regiment accused him of unsociability, and declared that instead of living with them he was always shut up in his room, poring over his books, and that he hoarded every penny of his pay. But they found fault with him chiefly because he never took part in any social entertainment unless he knew that gaming would form part of it. Play was his only passion; his stakes were never large, although when he had a decided run of luck he would play a little higher than usual, but then only with extreme caution. It was owing to this caution that he won with great regularity.
"My head used to spin when I heard my comrades talk of Ferdinand and his never-failing luck at play, using expressions too vague to admit of a reply, but easy enough to understand. I made up my mind to speak frankly with him upon the subject, but before I could do so the catastrophe occurred which separated us forever. One evening we were both present at a gay gathering; Ferdinand knew that the thing would close with play. A young officer of hussars, a Herr von Kleinschmidt, kept the bank, and was unfortunate. He lost considerable sums and it vexed him, but it irritated him still more that Ferdinand, whom he could not bear, played with his usual caution and met with his usual success. Every time Ferdinand won Herr von Kleinschmidt made some cutting remark, and his observations were all the more bitter as Ferdinand scarcely seemed to hear them. Others won far larger sums than he, but he alone seemed to excite the venom of the angry bank-keeper; he followed Ferdinand's play with suspicious eyes, and suddenly, when Ferdinand had won several times upon the same card, the irritated officer threw his cards upon the table.
"'So long as Herr von Heydeck plays I will not draw another card,' he said, angrily; and then, with a contemptuous glance at Ferdinand, he continued: 'I am not a gamester by profession, and am not sufficiently skilful to enter the lists against a man who makes gaming his study and knows well how to assist his luck. I hold such play dishonourable, and the man who practises it guilty of dishonourable conduct.'
"This was followed by dead silence throughout the room. All eyes were riveted upon Ferdinand, who stood by the card-table ghastly pale, biting his lips. He replied not a word, but gathered in the money he had won with a trembling hand and left the room. His comrades gave way before him, seeming to avoid him as he passed out from among them.
"When I heard such disgraceful words applied to my brother I grew almost wild with rage. I was on the point of rushing upon his insulter, but a friend restrained me. 'You can do nothing, Heydeck,' he whispered in my ear. 'Your brother's honour is lost if he leaves you to defend it.'
"I saw that he was right. It was hard to bridle my fury, but I did it. I followed Ferdinand, and overtook him near his lodgings. 'I am your second,' I said to him.
"He made no reply, and, as I looked at him as we passed beneath a street-lamp, I saw his lips quiver spasmodically; his cheeks were ashen, his eyes without lustre; he looked fearfully.
"I went on talking to him, and asked him how I should word his challenge, but still he did not answer me; and when we reached his apartments he threw himself upon a lounge and sobbed like a child. My brain reeled; I did not know what to think of his condition, for it never occurred to me that fear, pitiable disgraceful cowardice, could turn a Heydeck into a whining baby. I would not believe him when at last he composed himself sufficiently to tell me, his teeth chattering the while, that he could not fight,--could never summon sufficient courage to stand in front of a loaded pistol. He was beside himself, not with the thought of the insult that had been offered him, but with fear!
"He was a coward, an infamous coward; he confessed it to me, and cried like a child, cursing his father's harshness that had forced him to enter the army against his will, and that now condemned him to dishonour, for he could not fight.
"I stood as if turned to stone. I had never dreamed of the possibility of such cowardice. I left him with contempt, and I have never seen him since. The next morning I heard that he had sent in his resignation and was gone; whither I did not learn until long afterwards."
The colonel paused in his story and bent his gaze gloomily upon the ground. Memory was a greater pain to him than he cared to show.
For Leo his father's narrative possessed an absorbing interest. He had frequently heard allusions made to the irreconcilable quarrel that had existed for many years between his father and his uncle, but this was all he had ever known concerning it. Now the veil was lifted from the mystery; this explained the scorn and hatred with which the colonel mentioned the name of his brother, who was now a wealthy man, living somewhere in the Tyrol. But the story had produced upon Leo an effect which the narrator never intended. The young lieutenant was firmly convinced that his father had been mistaken. His uncle Ferdinand had never refused to fight a duel from cowardice; it was impossible! Had he not passed through the same struggle with himself which his uncle had formerly undergone? Small as was the old colonel's comprehension of his son's motives to-day, it must have been infinitely less with regard to his brother's motives in his hot-headed youth. Would he not have suspected Leo of cowardice if his colonel had not borne such enthusiastic testimony to the young officer's bravery?
Leo was most desirous to hear the rest of the story, but he did not venture to interrupt the old man's gloomy reverie. He sat silent until, after a long pause, the colonel at last struck the floor violently with his cane, and, lifting his head, said, in a loud, harsh voice, "What good will thinking of it or regretting it do now? What is done is done, and there's no help for it. The grave will not give up its dead. My cowardly vagabond of a brother has burdened my soul with another's blood! I can see him now, the handsome young fellow, curveting over the field at a review, with his dolman fluttering gayly over his shoulder,--and then it's all changed: I see only his pale face as he lies dying with my bullet through his lungs. He forgave me; he knew I could not help it. I could not endure that a Heydeck should tamely suffer disgrace. With his dying breath he declared me a man of honour whom he greatly esteemed, and he died in my arms.
"I can forgive Ferdinand everything but this, that he should have forced me to shoot down that fine young fellow and rob a poor mother of her only child! No, I can never, never forgive him! But enough of this; I did my duty then, and I will do it again, only I hope the bullet this time will not enter the youthful breast heaving with gay love of life, but bring rest to the weary old cripple."
Leo would have interposed here, but his father gave him no opportunity, and continued,--
"Let us finish this once for all. Do not interrupt me. I was sentenced to one year's imprisonment. As soon as I was free again I hastened to my father's death-bed. He gave me his blessing, and left his curse for his unworthy son, whom he would have disinherited had he possessed anything in the world save his honourable name. For a long time I heard nothing of Ferdinand. After my father's death a letter arrived from him; I never broke the seal, but returned it to him with, 'Unopened. Hans von Heydeck,' written on the envelope. The letter bore the official stamp of a Hungarian town. Some years afterwards a friend who had been travelling in Hungary told me that he had met Ferdinand in Pesth; that he was living there as tutor with a wealthy Hungarian noble; and after several more years I learned that he had purchased large estates in the Tyrol,--having become a very wealthy man by his marriage with a rich tradesman's heiress; that his wife had died about a year after her marriage in giving birth to a son, who had not long survived his mother. Ferdinand, therefore, was the sole possessor of great wealth, which, however, he did not seem to enjoy, as he lived the life of a hermit in his lonely castle, which he left only for a few weeks in the year, when his shattered health made a sojourn at one of the baths desirable.
"My last indirect news of Ferdinand I had about ten years ago. He had married some time before a very beautiful girl of an ancient and noble family. This second wife, however, whom he was said to have loved most devotedly, also died after a short time, leaving him an only child,--a daughter. He had been inconsolable for her loss, and was leading a more retired life even than before, scarcely ever leaving his castle, Reifenstein. Buried in his books, he repelled all advances from his neighbours, and was regarded in all the country round as a proud, inaccessible aristocrat. He had become a Catholic, and observed with great rigour all the duties and fasts of his church, although, in accordance with a promise made to her Protestant mother, he brought up his daughter in the Protestant faith.
"After this indirect intelligence, which I had some time since from a friend visiting in the Tyrol, I heard nothing farther of my brother until I received a letter from himself, about a week ago. At first I was undecided whether to break the seal or to return it to him unopened, as I had done by the first I had from him. At last I opened it, and yet, after I had read it, I was more undecided than before. The memory of the disgraceful past prompted me to burn it, while reason bade me give it to you. Since I received it I have always carried it about with me. Now I am glad that I did not burn it, since that has happened which I never could have anticipated.
"I was convinced that an honourable career was assured to you; that, without any outside aid, you would have attained the highest military honours. All that is past. Here is your uncle's letter; read it yourself."
Leo took the letter which his father handed him, and eagerly ran through it. It was as follows:
"More than thirty years have passed since that miserable evening which exiled me forever from my native country. Are you still implacable, Hans? My first letter to you, begging your forgiveness, was returned to me unopened. Will this one share the same fate? If it should, we are parted forever. For humbled as is my pride I cannot, for the third time, offer in reconciliation a hand that has been twice rejected. But no; I know you will read these lines. These long years must surely have softened your hard judgment. You will remember sadly, as I do, the happy days of childhood, and no longer think with hatred and aversion of the brother whom you once loved so tenderly.
"Let us now, as old men, Hans, forget what occurred in that wretched night. Let us reflect that we, brothers, are the last of the noble race of the von Heydecks, and resolve together to do what we can to revive the half-extinguished lustre of our ancient name.
"Daring the thirty melancholy years which I have passed in exile,--by my father's curse an outcast from my family,--the consciousness of being a Heydeck has upheld me and saved me from much degradation to which want might have compelled me.
"You can never dream of the suffering I brought upon myself by refusing, as I did, to comply with a custom so long upheld by aristocratic authority. All the wretchedness of my life has been the consequence of the events of that night which drove me forth from my parents,--from you and from my country. My punishment has been bitter!
"At first I became tutor in the family of a Hungarian magnate; then I entered that of a wealthy banker. In this dependent position I was subjected to humiliations of every kind. My blood boils now at the remembrance of how I was forced to yield to the whims of others: to humour dulness on the one side and intellectual superficiality on the other. It was a terrible ordeal! After some years, I became acquainted with a young and beautiful woman, the wealthy widow of a manufacturer, who had left her all his property. Her beauty attracted me, her wealth allured me! I was fearfully punished. She made my life a hell on earth.
"I Was foolish enough at the time of our marriage to allow myself to be persuaded to sign a paper giving to her the entire right of disposal of her property, and of bequeathing it as she chose in case of her death. I had sold myself, and did not even receive the proceeds of the sale! I actually believed that love would bend my wife's wishes to my will, and went so far, in my devotion to my bride, as to change my faith for her sake,--I became a Catholic!
"My punishment was sure and speedy. My wife reduced me almost to despair. While she scarcely allowed me sufficient means for the bare necessities of existence, she indulged in the wildest extravagance. I had to resign my beloved studies to accompany her to balls and masquerades, to concerts and the theatre. If I did not go with her she found some other escort. It was a horrible time! I was pursued by continual dread lest my wife might dishonour me. And I had to endure it all, for if I had attempted a separation I should have been a beggar. Death came at last to relieve me from my wretched thraldom. She died a few months after giving birth to a son, and on her death-bed she testified her hatred of me. She made a will which gave every penny which she possessed to her son; to me she left nothing. As during her life I lived but by her bounty, I was, after her death, to be dependent upon that of her son. I say hers, for I never believed him to be mine! She died with a smile of satisfied hatred upon her lips. She thought me crushed forever; but she had forgotten to appoint a guardian for her child, and this was my salvation. In the eye of the law I was his father, and as such his natural guardian. Moreover, when after a short time he died, I was his heir.
"I will say no more, dear Hans, of that horrible time. I was a prey to the stings of conscience. The thought that I had sold myself for gold never left me. I was doubly dishonoured!
"Henceforth I lived solitary and alone, given over to my historical and scientific studies in my old castle in the Tyrol, until my health obliged me to try the waters at Carlsbad. There I became acquainted with a charming girl, Countess Hilda von Sarnstein. I won her hand, and she came with me to the Tyrol. She was an angel. If the memory of my miserable past had not still poisoned my existence I should have been the happiest man in the world while by her side. She left me all too soon; but in my Hilda I have her living image. My daughter is my sole joy and pride; her gay, happy temperament enlivens as far as is possible my melancholy retired existence. When I hear her joyous laughter, I forget for a moment the wretched past. My dearest wish is to make her happy; and it is in the hope of doing so that I have for years nourished the scheme which I now tell you. I am rich; after my death all my property will devolve upon my child, who will bring it to her future husband. Shall it go to a stranger? Affection for my kindred has always filled my heart. In the saddest times of my life I remembered with loving fidelity my home and my parents, of whom I always contrived to procure tidings until their death; since when I have followed your career, Hans, with the deepest interest. I have never lost sight of you or yours.
"When a son was born to you, I rejoiced with you that our noble name would once more have a worthy representative. I could have wished that he had been a scholar instead of a soldier, but I am nevertheless proud of my nephew, the last genuine Heydeck. I have taken pains to learn all that I could of him, and I know how brilliantly he distinguished himself in the French war.
"I have often told my Hilda of you and of Leo; her blue eyes sparkle when she hears his name; she is proud of her cousin, and loves him without ever having seen him. Could I but see Leo and Hilda man and wife! I conjure you, Hans, forget what parted us; help me to provide a happy future for our children. We old people could depart in peace if we knew our name thus destined to flourish worthily.
"Answer me, Hans, as soon as you can, or better still send your Leo to me at Castle Reifenstein; he will be received with open arms by your brother,
"Ferdinand."
Leo dropped the letter, which he had read with the greatest attention. "Now I understand you, father," he said, sadly. "You desire me to accede to my uncle's proposition that I should go to the Tyrol and sell my freedom."
"Yes, that is what I desire," the colonel burst out; "but I see that you are minded to reject also this last means of securing to our family a dignified independence in the world!"
"Is it honourable to accept the gift of wealth at the hands of a man whom you have always heaped with opprobrium?"
"You have no right to condemn him as I do, since you have followed his example. I have had hard work to make up my mind; but now that it is made up, I will not yield one jot! Yesterday, I thought my son's marriage with the daughter of my wretched brother a disgrace; to-day, I see in it the only possible means of avoiding the shame of having the last Heydeck depend for existence upon quill-driving or daubing. I give you my honour that we are separated forever, you and I, if you do not set off for the Tyrol and your uncle to-morrow! Now you know that there is no use in one word more. Make your decision, and let me have it in writing. I will not see you again before your departure!"
The old man arose to leave the room, and Leo did not attempt to detain him. He knew perfectly well that after the colonel had given 'his honour' no power on earth could induce him to alter his determination.
Leaning heavily on his bamboo cane, the colonel hobbled to the door, opened it, and stood pondering for one moment upon the threshold. Then he turned once more to his son, and, in a much gentler tone than he had hitherto used, said, "We part, Leo, certainly for a long time, perhaps forever. If you hear that sudden death has overtaken me, do not think hardly of your old father; but if you have a spark of love for me obey me and go to the Tyrol!"
The door closed behind the colonel, and Leo was once more alone, free to indulge in his own reflections. What troubled him most was his father's resolve to fight Bertram. It was but too certain that the obstinate old soldier would act upon his determination as soon as possible. In imagination he saw his father fall in a conflict with the man who had so insulted himself, and forgetting his own future, he thought only of how this duel might be prevented.
A sudden idea flashed upon him, showing him he hoped a means of attaining this end. In the greatest haste he changed his dress, laying aside his uniform forever,--since he had already handed in his resignation and received leave of absence, he no longer considered himself as belonging to the service, and he hoped, moreover, in the dress of a civilian to escape immediate recognition on the part of his former comrades.
Once more he paused before the picture on the easel, and murmured as he gazed at it, "All this is your work. You drive me forth into the world; you have destroyed all my hopes; and yet I cannot chide you,--not even although you turn from me those dark, enchanting eyes! Farewell! I dare not gaze longer into their depths: they bewilder my heart and soul, and now I need every faculty I possess to help me to carve out my future. Farewell, forever! I must see you never again!"
After one long, last look, he took the portrait from the easel and leaned it with its face against the wall. Then he hurriedly left the room and the house.
In the street, seeing Count Waldheim in the distance, and wishing to avoid all discussion of his affairs with any one for the present, he turned in an opposite direction, called a fiacre, and was driven rapidly to a retired and extremely handsome villa in the suburbs. Here a footman in rich livery instantly appeared, opened the carriage-door, and evidently had been taught to regard Leo as an honoured guest.
"Is Herr Delmar at home?"
"To you, Herr Lieutenant, but to no one else. My master is at dinner, but he has given orders that you are to be admitted at all hours. I will announce you immediately."
"No need, I will announce myself."
"As you please, Herr Lieutenant; my master dines in the garden-room."
Leo nodded in answer to the man's low bow, and then hurriedly passed through the hall and several antechambers on his way to the familiar garden-room. He paid no heed to the more than princely luxury of the surroundings, scarcely even glancing at the splendid pictures with which the walls were hung, but hurried on.
Surrounded by rare tropical plants, in a room the walls of which were almost entirely of glass, but kept perfectly cool by the constant play of a fountain, a table was spread, at which sat Herr Paul Delmar, with a liveried servant behind his chair.
The lord of this magnificent villa, of several other princely estates, and of a capital of several millions, was a young man thirty years old at most,--not strictly handsome, but of an interesting, cheerful countenance, in which sparkled a pair of brilliant black eyes. The nose was too large and the skin too sallow for beauty, otherwise the features were admirable, and the whole bearing and air of the man extremely attractive, especially when the face was lit up by the frequent half-kindly, half-ironical smile.
"Is that you, Leo?" he cried to the new-comer. "A rare guest, indeed; sit down. A place for Herr von Heydeck," he gave orders to the servant.
"No, no, Paul, I cannot; thanks," Leo replied.
"Have you dined?"
"No, but----"
"Then I'll take no excuse. Not on your account, Leo; you know how selfish I am,--my own comfort is my chief care. Nothing would taste as it should with you sitting there fasting and hungry."
"But I'm not hungry; I assure you I have not the least appetite."
"But I have, and you shall not spoil it by sitting there eating nothing and watching me. There is nothing in this world of more importance than a good dinner; I pity any man who does not know how to appreciate so refined an enjoyment. A bad dinner is the greatest of losses: it can never be repaired,--it has gone forever! He only who knows how to eat appreciates the full value of life. Here is your plate, Leo,--my Jean is an active fellow,--and now take your soup; season it as you like it, and, for heaven's sake, look like a reasonable being. Such a long face as yours is as bad for the soup as if the cook had over-salted it."
Delmar set his friend an excellent example, which Leo gradually followed. The events of the day had made him forget his dinner and turn from the idea of food, but youth and health soon asserted themselves, and to his host's satisfaction he did ample justice to the admirable repast before him.
During dinner he did not touch upon what he had come to say,--he knew that his friend disliked all disturbing emotions during his meal-times, and as he wished to secure his entire and undivided attention he waited until the servant had brought coffee and retired before he began. "I have come to you to-day, Paul, to ask you to help me."
"Indeed! I shall be only too delighted; but I mistrust you,--you know it is an old quarrel between us that you always give and never accept."
"To-day I will accept, and a great service from you too,--if you will do it for me."
"Anything in my power, Leo, is done for you before you ask it. You could hardly ask too much, as you know."
"I knew what you would say, Paul," the other cried, grasping his friend's hand cordially.
But Paul withdrew it with a smile. "For heaven's sake don't be sentimental," he said; "and pray don't imagine that I stir a finger for you out of consideration for you. Everything that I do, I do solely for my own sake. It gives me pleasure to do something for you,--it disturbs the tedious monotony of existence. I may perhaps hit upon something entertaining; that is why, and only why, you could hardly ask too much of me! You know very well that I am an incorrigible egotist, and therefore, and because I am devoured by curiosity, tell me what you want."
"You shall learn, you miserable egotist, whom gross selfishness drives to any amount of self-sacrifice for a friend; but before I tell you you must know what has happened to-day." And Leo described calmly and frankly the events of the day.
When he repeated his expressions with regard to Eva Schommer Delmar gave a nod of assent, and said, "A severe but perfectly correct summary of the heiress's character. I met her to-day just as you were discoursing so amiably about her. I rode past her carriage and had a most gracious bow. The fair Eva knows that my millions outnumber her own, and esteems me accordingly. You are right, Leo; pride of purse is more disgusting than pride of birth. Fräulein Schommer is an odious creature."
Paul gave one keen glance at Leo as he spoke, and noticed that the latter suddenly flushed as he replied, "Certainlyyouhave no right, Paul, to speak thus of Fräulein Schommer. I did not know that she had injured you."
"I am not speaking of myself. I was only confirming your judgment, your own words."
"Which I acknowledge to have been hasty and unjust. You do not dream, Paul, what disastrous results they had for me. Listen!"
Paul smiled and nodded, promising not to interrupt again; but he did not keep his word, for when his friend described Bertram's interference, and repeated word for word what he had said, he started up in violent agitation, threw away the cigar which he had just lighted, and exclaimed, "What! the scoundrel dared to accuse you of dishonourable conduct? Is the fellow mad? And what did you do, Leo? Struck him across the face with the flat of your sword I trust as he deserves. At all events, I hope you were not insane enough to challenge a rogue who could not insult you?"
"You know my principles with regard to duelling."
"Of courage; but who thinks of principles in such a case? I envy you the capacity to do so. Fortunately then you did not challenge him. Of course you gave him a suitable memento of the occasion? Go on, Leo; I will control my cursed temper if I can and not interrupt again."
He lighted another cigar and leaning back in his chair kept his word this time. With exemplary patience he listened while Leo circumstantially related all that had occurred: his conversation with Colonel von Herwarth, his resignation from the service, and then his interview with his father, finally giving Delmar his uncle Ferdinand's letter to read.
As the story went on Paul was strongly tempted to break his promise. He moved uneasily in his chair when Leo told of his resignation, and when he heard that the old colonel proposed calling out Bertram he was on the point of bursting into a rage, but he controlled himself, and suppressed all comment. On the other hand, he quite chuckled over the old colonel's command that his son should forbear to earn his living by honest labour, and instead rescue the family honour by a wealthy marriage. And he read through Ferdinand's letter without a word.
"Now, Paul, you know everything," Leo said in conclusion, "and you must have some suspicion of what I want of you. It lies in your power to prevent any duel between my father and Bertram. You once hinted to me in confidence that you were privy to some disgraceful conduct of Bertram's. You have but to tell my father of this, and his principles will forbid his calling out a scoundrel. This is why I am come to you. I am sure you will relieve me of this anxiety, which is the worst that I have to endure at present."
Paul leaned back comfortably in his arm-chair and blew forth several artistically-formed rings of smoke, then sipped his coffee and proceeded to blow forth more rings, as was his custom when buried in reflection.
His silence troubled Leo. "You do not answer me, Paul. Can you not or will you not help me? I remember you were with Bertram a great deal last winter, but I never really regarded you as his friend."
"Friend of that scoundrel? I wouldn't give that for his friendship!" And he snapped his fingers. "He was my slave," he continued. "I paid him well, that I might get rid of him when I did not want to use him any longer, and I will do it now! Cast the shadow from your brow, you anxious, heavily-principled son of a hot-headed father. This nonsensical duel is out of the question. I promise you that I will prevent it. I settled that in my mind instantly, and it seemed such child's play to me that I had ceased to think of it. I was thinking of you, Leo; the fact is that I am more and more convinced that you are the strangest, most enigmatical human being on God's earth. I regard you as I should some fabled monster of prehistoric times. We have grown up together, I thought I knew you, and yet you are continually taking me by surprise."
"I really cannot see what eccentricity of mine has just at present provoked this rather unflattering outburst," Leo remarked, not very well pleased.
"I suppose not; the fact is it is useless to be surprised at you, for you are made up of eccentricities and never do anything like other people. You are an artist and a scholar, opposed on principle to war, nevertheless you became an officer in the army, and behaved like a hero in the field. You have a friend--a millionaire--who desires nothing more ardently than to serve you, and you live with the greatest economy upon your meagre pay, denying yourself every enjoyment, although I confess you never look like a poor man. You are a democrat of the purest type, and yet get along delightfully with your aristocratic comrades without ever being false to your principles."
"I should have thought all this was nothing new to you."
"True; but to-day you have capped the climax of your inconsistencies. You say yourself that it pains you to send in your resignation, and yet you do it, although you could by a single word have crushed to the earth the infamous coward who insulted you, and who of course knew that you would not call him out. You cannot fight a scoundrel any more than can your father. You might have done for yourself what you have done for him."
"That would have been cowardice, and a falsehood besides; for I refrain from calling Bertram out not because the fellow is a scoundrel, but because I consider duelling criminal. I will never disgrace myself by hypocrisy and a denial of my principles."
"Heroism! extraordinary, antediluvian heroism! I repeat, I regard you with admiring awe, Leo; although I, poor grovelling earth-worm that I am, cannot climb to your sublime heights. And this is just why I am so infatuated about you,--for if you were like me! should find you as desperately tiresome as all the rest of the world,--and why I am anxious about you, for with your prehistoric truth and honour you'll hardly have much luck in this present world. Just now for example, you are in a charming little scrape, and I am really anxious to know how you will pull through it. You have sent in your resignation and have to begin life with nothing, or next to nothing. Tell me frankly how much money you have laid by, for I am convinced that you are an admirable economist and have contrived to lay by something."
"No, I have laid by nothing, but I inherited from my mother about two thousand thalers which I have never touched, and which will be amply sufficient to support me until I have arranged my future existence."
"And you are going to diminish that pittance? Will you not at last be reasonable, Leo, and see that you can give me no greater pleasure----"
"Not a word more, Paul! You know that you can never offend me except by offering me money."
"I am dumb, but I cannot suppress the remark that you are a greater egotist than I. What the deuce is the good of my money if the man whom I love best in the world will never take a penny of it, and looks as if he would bite me if I so mach as mention his doing so? But there, I am dumb. I must take you as you are. You will live on your two thousand thalers then until you have arranged your future existence,--what sort of an existence? I am greatly mistaken if you contemplate acceding to your amiable uncle's proposal."
"Never! the mere idea of marrying for money disgusts me!"
"I thought so. For my part, my sentiments are expressed in the saying, 'Wealth is no disgrace, and poverty no virtue;' but you would of course refuse your cousin Hilda's hand, just because she happened to be wealthy."
"No; if I loved her and was loved by her, I should, although I admit it would be difficult and against the grain, try to forget that she was rich; but I do not love her, and I never can love her!"
"You don't know her yet. To be sure, judging from her father, whose letter is not exactly instinct in every line with delicacy of sentiment, there is not very much to be expected of her; but she may, nevertheless, be an extremely charming girl."
"And if she were,--if she were possessed of the beauty and amiability of an angel,--still I could never love her!"
"In--deed, in--deed? You seem surprisingly secure in your knowledge of yourself. Hm! I suspected as much. I remarked, you may remember, that you were in a deuce of a scrape. You'll have, at all events, to sacrifice some one of your principles, for I suppose you number filial duty among them. Do you forget that your father threatens to disown you if you sully his name by quill-driving or daubing canvas for a living, and if you do not start to-morrow for the Tyrol to see your uncle? Take one piece of advice from me, Leo: obey this last demand of your father's. Go to the Tyrol and make your uncle a visit,--you bind yourself to nothing by doing so. It cannot hurt you just to look at your cousin Hilda--the name sounds really very pretty--besides, it is best for you to be out of the way for the present of all the gossip that there will be here. Nothing surely can be more beneficial to your art than a sojourn among the glorious Alps. Be reasonable for once, Leo. Time is everything to you now. In time your father, even though he be as thick-skulled as yourself, must listen to reason, and see that a Heydeck can work without disgrace if he has not money enough to live upon."
Paul's advice was so reasonable that Leo could not but accept it. Undesirable as nearer intercourse with his uncle and cousin must be, judging from the letter which had produced a very unfavourable impression, he could not but feel it his duty to conquer his aversion to the journey which his father had enjoined upon him. Paul was right; it was very desirable to gain time, for only with time was there any chance of combating successfully the old soldier's prejudices. And so, after a short pause of reflection, Leo declared that he would follow his friend's advice and set out for the Tyrol the next morning, if Delmar would first assure him that the duel between the old colonel and Bertram should not take place.
"You may be certain of it this very evening," Delmar said, highly delighted. "My slave is bound to me by such fetters that if I choose he will ask your pardon on his knees!"
"That I do not desire."
"What you desire does not concern me at present, but that I fulfil my promise and make this crazy duel impossible for your father, and that shall be done immediately. Do me a favour in return, I pray. Take me with you to the Tyrol to-morrow."
"You want to go to the Tyrol with me?"
"Yes, I do; it is horribly tiresome and stupid here in K----. I cannot stand it any longer. I want to breathe Alpine air."
"But, Paul, we cannot possibly travel together. Remember I must husband my means and travel third-class, and stop at second-rate inns."
"I will travel third-class with you; it will be a change, and much cooler and pleasanter in summer."
"But the second-class hotels? Do you forget what you said only a little while ago about a bad dinner?"
"For heaven's sake don't call me to account for all the nonsense I talk! In short, I want to go with you. We will travel afoot, student fashion, and sketch and amuse ourselves as we can. Of course you will have to stay with your uncle at Castle Reifenstein, but there will surely be a tolerable inn somewhere near, where I can take up my quarters. I want to be at hand to see what becomes of you."
"Do you insist then upon making this sacrifice for me, Paul?"
"For the love of heaven don't grow sentimental again! I have no idea of making any sacrifice for you. I am not thinking of you, but of myself. I shall like the joke of it, of travelling afoot instead ofen millionnaire, I wish to study life in its various phases, with you for my companion. On the whole, you see, you are a very entertaining fellow, that is all. Pure selfishness,--nothing else, I assure you. So now go home and pack your portmanteau, that we may start early to-morrow, while I look for our mutual friend at Büchner's, where he is sure to be at this time, and where I propose to rattle his chains in his ears."