If romantic affliction manifests itself in a pale face, a feeling of loathing, obstinacy, and hatred of one's neighbor and of everything, then had Roland experienced a genuine romantic affliction. He sat near Eric in the carriage, and shut his eyes so as to see nothing but what was going on in his own imagination; he pressed his lips hard together, pale and trembling, determined not to say a word.
Am I a child still, he asked himself, that can be knocked about hither and thither, that must obey and ask for no reason? Why didn't Eric give a reason for his returning so suddenly? Why did Knopf, with a triumphant smile, tell me that he didn't wake me on purpose? Then it flashed upon him that Knopf had taken upon himself the responsibility that Eric had assumed, and he might have thought that it would be better for Roland to be angry with an absent one, than with him in whose hands he had to remain. In the meanwhile Roland glanced over towards Eric, to see whether he wasn't on the point of beginning to explain everything to him; but Eric was silent; he had also shut his eyes.
In the bright day, through a landscape full of life, they both rode on wrapt in their own reveries.
Overcome with fatigue, Eric sat as if sunk in a half sleep, in which the rattle of the carriage sounded like a demoniacal rumble. At times, when they were descending, and the locked wheels squeaked and grated, he would look up, catch a glimpse of the Rhine in the distance, then shut his eyes, and in his half dream pierce through the view of water of mountain; and it seemed to him, as if everything was flooded over, and in the midst of the waves stood two men on rocks, far from, and still beckoning to, each other. On one stood Clodwig, speaking of a Roman relic which he held in his hand, and on the other stood Weidmann, talking of life insurance, and between whiles they were talking about Eric and Roland. And just as he woke up he heard quite distinctly, as if both had shouted out to each other, "Eric and Roland have reached home safely!"
"Here there are," they had shouted; "here they are," shouted a voice from without.
The horses stopped; Fräulein Milch was standing at the garden hedge; they were at the Major's. Eric greeted her, and taking it for granted that they had not come to see her, Fräulein Milch called out:—
"The Major drove over to the Villa more than an hour ago, and left word with me, that he would not be back to dinner."
Eric got out; he asked Fräulein Milch about his mother, and whether she knew what was going on at the villa. He learned that there must be something unusual, for everything was in happy confusion; to-day, undoubtedly, the betrothal of Von Pranken and Manna would be solemnized.
Eric allowed Roland to go home alone; he had to shape his course anew.
"The whole world is a masquerade," said Fräulein Milch.
Eric, who honored the good old lady sincerely, did not, however, feel in the mood for discussing generalities about mankind; and when Fräulein Milch tried to get out of him what he had learned at Mattenheim, he approached the limit of impoliteness in answer to her repeated inquiries. He did not suspect that Fräulein Milch, who knew everything already, wished to come to an explanation with him.
He had desired to compose himself here as in a sort of ante-room, and to think matters over, and now he went away as if frightened. He saw the handsome villa glistening in the bright sunshine, the blazing panes of the glass house and cupola; he saw the park, he saw the green cottage in which his mother lived—and all this was built and planted from the profits of traffic in human beings.
Does Pranken know it? He must know it, and then it remains to be seen whether he will extend his hand to the daughter of this house. Hatred and bitterness that Manna should belong to this house penetrated his whole being, made his hair stand on end, and clenched his fists; he would dash the whole lying structure to pieces. But Manna—how would she take it? He stood still, upbraiding himself that he had ever thought himself capable of cherishing one noble thought within his soul. He stood still and stared at the rocks as if he would have dashed them down into the valley, crushing everything beneath. A physical pain, a pang through his heart, almost took away his breath. Beaming out from the surrounding darkness it stood before him—he loved Manna; and without being aware of it, he laughed aloud.
"The daughter of this man thy wife, the mother of thy children? The world is a masquerade."
The words of Fräulein Milch came back to him, and he added to them,—
"And I am not called to tear off the mask from the faces of the maskers?"
Inwardly composed he went to the villa.
When Roland came to the Villa, he was at once summoned to his father; and as he approached him, Sonnenkamp exclaimed:—
"My son! my son! it is thou indeed! everything for thee; thou art forever secure, and elevated forever. My beloved son! Everything for thee!"
The strong man now raised up the youth like a child, and exclaimed:—"Roland, it is accomplished; forget not this moment, the crowning moment of my whole life, crowded as it has been with dangers and wanderings. My son, from this day forth, you are to be called Roland von Lichtenburg."
Roland stood once more on the floor, and trembled as he cast an involuntary glance into the large mirror.
"Yes," laughed the father, "look at yourself; so does the young baron appear. Ah! my child, you will know after a while what has been done for you. But let it remain concealed between ourselves how we have been affected by this, for I cannot show the world, and you must not, that I laid so much stress on the matter. I shall appear indifferent; we must both appear so. Above all, do not let Herr Dournay know anything of it. You came quick to-day; where did you meet my messenger?" Roland said that he knew nothing of any messenger. He now heard that his father, in the night, had sent a messenger to Mattenheim, with word to come back at once; and also that the son of the Cabinetsrath, the ensign, had been on a visit to the house with many companions, who were again coming at noon to see Roland.
"And where is Herr Dournay?" again asked Sonnenkamp.
Roland replied that he had remained behind with Fräulein Milch. Sonnenkamp laughed, and impressed his son with the necessity of continuing his customary deportment towards Eric; he must always be grateful to him, and he should be especially careful to be right modest.
"You must also learn to treat our elevation of rank as unimportant before the world. Now go to your mother—no, wait. You must still have something more that will make you strong, that will make you proud, that will make you feel safe. Stand here, I will show you how highly I esteem you, how I look upon you as a grown man."
He fumbled hurriedly in his pocket finally he brought out the ring of keys, went to the fire-proof safe built in the wall, rattled back the knobs on it, and at once opened both the folding-doors.
"See here," said he, "all this will, one day, be yours, yours and your sister's. Come here, hold out your hands—so." He took a large package out of the safe, and said:—
"Attend to what I say; here I put a million pounds sterling—so—hold tight. Do you know what that is, a million pounds? more than six millions of thalers are contained in these papers, and, beside that, I have something to spare. Does your head whirl? it must not; you must know what you possess, what will make you master of the world, superior to everything. Now give it to me. See, here it lies in this place; close by it are the other papers; underneath them is gold, coined gold; a good deal of it; I like coined gold; uncoined, too; that lies here. I may die. I often feel that a vertigo might suddenly seize me, and carry me off. Over here, see here—here lies my will. When I die, you are of age. Now, my full-grown son, you are a man, give me your hand. How does the hand feel that held in it millions of your own? That gives strength, does it not? Be not faint-hearted; I trust you, you and I alone know it. Now go, my son, be proud within yourself and modest before the world; you are more, you have more, than all the nobility of this land, more perhaps than the Prince himself. There, my child, there! this moment makes me happy—very happy. If I die, you know already—you know all now. There, go now. Come and let me kiss you once. Now go."
Roland could not utter a word; he went, he stood outside the door, he stared at his hands,—these hands had held millions of his own; everything that, he had ever thought and heard of the joy and woe of riches, everything was in utter confusion in his mind; inwardly, however, he experienced a sensation of joy, of proud enthusiasm, that had almost made him shout aloud. If he had only been permitted to tell it all to Eric! He felt as if he could not keep it to himself; but then he was not allowed to communicate it to any one. His father had put his trust in him; he dared not betray the trust.
He went to his mother. Frau Ceres, handsomely dressed, was walking up and down in the great hall; she gave Roland a haughty nod, and gazed at him a long while without saying a word; at length she said:—
"How am I to be saluted simply with 'Good-morning, mamma?' It ought to be, 'Good-morning, Frau mamma, good-morning, Frau Baroness. You are very gracious, Frau Baroness—I commend myself to your grace, Frau Baroness—you look extremely well, Frau Baroness.' Ha, ha, ha!"
Roland felt a painful shudder thrill through him; it seemed to him as if his mother had suddenly become insane. But in a moment she was standing before a mirror, and saying:—
"Your father is right—quite right; we have all been born to-day for the first time, we have come into the world anew, and we are all noble. Now come, kiss your mother, your gracious mother."
She kissed Roland passionately, and then said, that if she could only have all the malicious tale-bearers there, they would be smothered with envy at beholding the good fortune that had befallen her.
"But where is Manna?" asked Roland.
"She is silly, she has been spoiled in the convent, and will not hear a word about anything; she has shut herself up in her room, and will not let any one see her. Go try if she will not speak to you, and get her to smile. The Professorin has always told me that I was sensible; yes, now I will be sensible; I will show that I am. The big Frau von Endlich, and the Countess Wolfsgarten, proud as a peacock—we are noble too, now—will burst with indignation. Go, dear child, go to your sister, bring her here; we will rejoice together, and dress up finely, and to-morrow you shall go with your father and Herr von Pranken to the capital."
Roland went to Manna's room, he knocked and called; she answered finally that she would see him in an hour's time, but now she must be left alone.
As Roland was going to his own room, Pranken met him; he embraced him warmly, called him brother, and accompanied him with congratulations to his room. Here lay the uniform, which had been ordered for Roland. Pranken urged him to put it on at once; but Roland did not want to, before he had passed his examination.
"Pah!" laughed Pranken, "examination! that is a scare-crow for poor devils of commoners. My young friend, you are now a Baron, and by that means you have passed the best part of the examination: what is now to come is only form."
It required no great persuasion to induce Roland to put on the uniform. Pranken helped him. The uniform became him admirably; he looked both lithe and strong; he had broad shoulders, and the pliancy of his form did not disguise his manly strength of muscle.
"Really, I had rather have gone into the navy," said he, "but there doesn't happen to be any."
Once more, accompanied by Pranken, he went to Manna's room, and cried out, that she ought to see him in his uniform, but Manna returned no answer whatever.
Pranken now went with Roland to his father, and both conducted him to his mother; she was ravished at his appearance. Roland did not know what to do with himself from excitement; he went into the park, he saluted the trees; he showed his uniform to the sky and to the plants; but his salutations met with no response. He showed himself to the servants, and they all congratulated him. While he was standing, his left hand upon his sword, near the porter, who was saluting him in military fashion like a veteran, Eric came up. He did not recognize Roland at first, and seemed to wake up only when his pupil began to speak. Roland's cheek was glowing with excitement, and he exclaimed in a loud voice:—
"Ah, if I were only able to tell you all, Eric! I feel as if I were intoxicated, and metamorphosed. Tell me, am I awake or dreaming? Ah, Eric, I can't say anything more now."
Roland went with Eric to his room, and questioned him eagerly whether he had not also been as happy the first time he had put on his uniform.
Eric could not give him an answer; he tried to remember how he felt the first time he had donned his uniform, but he recollected much better how he felt the last time he had doffed it. A remembrance did come to him, however, a long forgotten remembrance. The Doctor had once said that Roland never took any pleasure in a new suit, but now he was in raptures over the gay-colored soldier's coat; all ideals seemed to have disappeared, or at least to have concentrated in this coat. Eric gazed at him sadly; he came near saying that the two most beautiful moments in the soldier's life were, when he put on the uniform, and when he took it off forever. But he could not now make this reply, for there are things which every one must experience for himself, and cannot learn from others; and what would anything amount to on this present occasion?
Joseph came and said that Eric must repair to Herr Sonnenkamp.
With the ground reeling under him, with everything swimming before his eyes, like one in a dream, Eric went across the court and up the steps; he stood in the antechamber. Now is the decisive moment.
Eric entered; he did not venture to look at Sonnenkamp; he dreaded every word he might have to say to him; for every thought that Sonnenkamp expressed to him, everything which his thoughts had touched on, seemed to him polluted. But now as he fixed his gaze upon him, Sonnenkamp seemed to be transformed, as if he had by some charm contracted his powerful frame. He looked so modest, so humble, so childlike, smiling there before him. He informed Eric, in a quiet tone, that the Prince had seen fit in his graciousness to invest him with a title of nobility, and was soon to deliver him the patent confirming it with his own hand.
Eric breathed with still greater difficulty, and could not utter a word.
"You are surprised?" asked Sonnenkamp. "I know the Jewish banker has been refused,—and I even think—the gentlemen are very shrewd—I even think—however, it doesn't make any difference; every one works his own way. I know also that a certain Doctor Fritz has been at the philanthropist Weidmann's, and that he has spoken a good deal of slander about a man whom I unfortunately resemble—isn't it so? I see it in your countenance. I hope, however, that you will not—no, be quite at ease, my dear, good friend; rejoice with me and for our Roland."
Eric looked up now freely. There is certainly some mistake here, for the man could not be so composed, if he had anything to dread.
Sonnenkamp continued:—
"You will remain our friends, you and your noble mother."
He held out his hand; now again Eric shuddered all over. The ring on his thumb—is that too a mystery, a deception? Sonnenkamp could not but feel that there was something wrong; he suddenly drew back the outstretched hand, as if a wild beast had extended its claw towards it, but said with great composure:—
"I know you are an opposer of election to the nobility."
"No; more than that, I wanted to say something," interposed Eric; but Sonnenkamp interrupted him hastily.
"Excuse me if I do not wish to hear any more."
Suddenly shifting the conversation, he continued in an earnest tone, saying that Eric had now only the finishing stroke to put to his work, by guiding and fortifying Roland into a true appreciation of his new position and his new name.
"It would be a fine thing if you should take the Professorship; I would then let Roland, until we ourselves moved into town, and perhaps even then, occupy the same residence with you; you would remain his friend and instructor, and everything would go on excellently."
With great frankness, he added, that he desired, since he, as a father, was not in the position to see to it himself, that Roland should be wisely and discreetly led to a personal knowledge of that thing which men call vice; this alone would preserve him from excess.
Eric remained silent; he had come with warnings, and full of anxiety; now the whole affair was ended, now nothing remained to be done; yes, through Sonnenkamp's own acknowledgment that he was mistaken for Herr Banfield, every objection seemed to be put at rest. For the sake of saying something, Eric asked where the Major was. With great satisfaction, Sonnenkamp replied that the building of the castle had fortunately so far progressed, that they would be able on their return from the capital to open it; the Major had just gone to the castle to make the necessary arrangements.
"Have you seen your mother yet?"
"No."
"She has, I am sorry to say, sent word to me that she is a little unwell, and will not be able to partake in our rejoicing."
Eric hastened to his mother. He had never yet seen her ill; now she lay exhausted on the sofa, and was delighted at his returning so immediately upon the reception of her letter. Eric knew nothing of any letter, and heard now, also for the first time, that Sonnenkamp had sent a messenger, to whom his mother had also given a letter.
His mother, who was feverish, said that she felt as if a severe sickness was threatening her; it seemed to her as if the house in which she was, was floating on the waves nearer and nearer to the sea; she had to force herself to keep awake, for as soon as she closed her eyes, this sensation returned to her more frightful than ever. She sat up and said:—
"Now you have come back, everything will be well once more. I felt timid alone here in this perverse world."
Eric felt that it was impossible to tell his mother anything of what he had learned at Weidmann's.
His mother complained:—
"Ah, I wish it may not be with you as it is with me; the older I become, the more mysterious and complicated are many things to me. You men are fortunate; individual things do not vex you so much, because you can see a united whole."
As the mother gazed confusedly about her she looked upon her son, and her eye sank; she would willingly have imparted her trouble to him; but why burden him when he could do no good? She kept it to herself.
Eric told her of the interesting life he had seen at Mattenheim, and how fortunate he had been in gaining there a fatherly friend. In the way in which he described the energetic activity of the family, it seemed as if he were bringing a fresh breeze into the room; and the mother said:—
"Yes, we forget in our troubles that there are still beautiful, harmonious existences in the world for a maiden like Manna." And just as she mentioned her name, a messenger from Manna came with the request, that the Professorin would come to her.
Eric wanted to say to the messenger in reply, that his mother was unwell, and to ask Fräulein Manna therefore to have the goodness to come to her; but his mother sat erect, and said:—
"No, she requires my assistance; I must be well, and I am well. It is best that my duty saves me from yielding to this weakness."
She got up quickly, and said to the messenger:—
"I will come."
She dressed hurriedly, and went with her son to the villa.
The Professor's wife announced herself at Manna's door; Manna opened it. With a bloodless countenance, she stood, before the Mother and languidly-held out her hand.
"I have wrestled with myself all alone," she said; "I cannot find the outlet; I must tell you all."
And now Manna related how she had grown up in most reverent respect for her father, and how she had often painfully lamented that her mother was so harsh and cold to him; but once—she had never learned what had transpired previously—her mother had said in the presence of her father:—
"'Know then who your father is, who your father is.' Don't look at me, I beg of you; I beg you, let me speak it softly in your ear."
She whispered the words softly in the ear of the Professorin. The latter sat there and held her hands in her lap, and shut her eyes; not a sound was heard in the room: it seemed as if the whole world was dead, and the two human beings that sat there opposite to each other, dead as well. Manna went on to say that she did not at first understand what this meant, but gradually it had come to her, and she had persuaded her, parents to let her go to the convent. On the way thither the thought was continually present to her, how, in old times, Iphigenia had offered herself up as a propitiatory sacrifice, and so she longed to offer herself up a willing and a hopeful victim, to wash away all the guilt of those who were dear to her.
"I felt then as if something had been cleft within me, as if a vein had burst in my heart. I looked upon myself as a victim on the altar. I had the courage then, I wanted to act decisively before that courage deserted me, for I was afraid of my own cowardice, and for that reason was anxious to bind myself at once."
Again, after a longer pause—the Professorin did not interrupt with a single word—Manna said that she did not understand what her father was doing, and she, she herself must be made noble, and become Pranken's bride, of equal rank with him. She had honored and esteemed Pranken; he was a man of the world, but of a profoundly generous and religious character.
Sobbing bitterly, she threw herself upon the mother's neck, and exclaimed:—
"I cannot! I cannot be his wife. Ah! I am too weak. You have told me that I should have to experience trying conflicts, but I had never thought, never dreamt of such a thing as this. No; no, indeed."
"What more?" asked the Mother.
Manna hid her face in her hands, then threw herself upon the Mother's neck and wept.
"The Mother entreated her to let her know the rest, but Manna remained silent; finally she uttered the words:—
"No, I shall take it with me into the grave; it is mine alone."
The Professorin spoke words of hope and comfort to her, and asked her whether she had ever mentioned in confession what she now confessed to her. Manna said no, and then threw herself upon her knees before the Mother, and besought her to tell no one what she had related of her father. But she started up suddenly as if bitten by a serpent, when the Professorin told her that she had known it all a long while, that it had been a heavy burden to her, but that it was the duty of the innocent not to withdraw themselves from one who seeks to efface a wretched past.
A strange agitation swept over Manna's countenance.
"Who else knows it? Tell me."
"Why should I, my child? Why do you so torment your soul, and make it wander from house to house, from man to man, crushed, begging, and imploring forgiveness?"
"My prayer, my sacrifice is rejected; I am cast out, we are all cast out. No, I am free; the holy ones in heaven have not been willing to accept my sacrifice. It shall live within my own bosom only, within myself, within my crushed and shattered heart. I am free—free."
"Your laugh makes me feel uneasy," said the Professorin, who was observing closely the play of Manna's features. Manna moaned that her sorrow was sevenfold.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, "I have spoken with my brother only once about slavery, and then I felt as if something was whirling around me, when he said, Beings who are admitted to religious life are our equals. He is right; whoever enters the sanctuary of the knowledge of God is a free child of God; and I shuddered when I thought for the first time how it could be possible for a man to be praying in church, and have near by, separated from him only by a railing, men who were slaves. Is not his every word of prayer, is not his offering, a lie? It was a frightful pathway upon which I had entered, and all the powers of evil were pushing me on further and further. How is it then? how can a priest receive the child of a man, how could he receive us into the church, while our father still-—-"
As if a weight lay on her heart. Manna placed her hand there, and seemed unable to go on.
The Professorin consoled her.
"My child," she said, "do not lay the blame on Religion; cast no stone at those who cannot accomplish everything, who cannot equalize all the inequalities that have come into the world from sin. The temple is great, pure, and sublime, even though cares, sloth, and base submission have found hiding-places in it."
From the bottom of her heart, the Professorin sought to keep Manna from losing her hold upon religion; she spoke with enthusiasm of those who devote their whole existence to the Most High, who restlessly work and strive, without reward, to fashion the earth into a dwelling-place of love and virtue.
Manna looked up astonished at the woman who thus counselled her; her lips parted, but she could not utter the words that lay upon her tongue; she wanted to ask. "But are you not a Huguenot?" But she kept back the words, for it seemed to her at this moment as if every difference in form of religious belief had been blotted out; here was indeed nothing but a heart simple in its purpose, gentle, patient, suffering, and devoted to good. Now she felt that she had fully and entirely devoted herself to the noble woman; she flung herself into her arms; with tears in her eyes she kissed the Mother's cheeks, forehead, and hands, and asked her to lay her hands upon her head, and save her from dying of grief.
Silent and locked in each other's arms sat the two women, when a knock was heard at the door.
Sonnenkamp called out that he must speak with his daughter.
"You must speak to him," said the Professorin.
Manna rose, and pushed back the bolts of the door.
Sonnenkamp entered.
"I am glad you are well again," said he in a clear voice to the Professor's wife.
He did not dream with what eyes the Professorin and his child regarded him.
"I thank you," he continued, making a gesture which was intended to signify that he desired to be alone with Manna.
Manna perceived it, and she begged—she could not express her agony, but she begged earnestly—that her father would permit the Professorin to be present at the conversation; she had no secrets from the noble woman.
Sonnenkamp shrugged his shoulders.
Was it possible? No, it could not be, his own child could not have betrayed him.
He now said plainly that he would rather speak with Manna alone.
The Professorin rose to go, and Sonnenkamp begged her in a kindly tone to keep his wife company during his absence, and give her all the instruction and advice necessary to enable her to enter upon her new sphere of life with becoming repose and dignity.
The Professorin bowed and left them.
Manna had to sit down; she felt as if her limbs would never again support her; Sonnenkamp said to her that she had doubtless long ago forgotten the bitter epithet that her mother had applied to him; she might now go to her mother, who would assure her, that she had only made use of the words in anger.
Manna nodded, without saying a word; and then Sonnenkamp spoke of her marriage with Pranken, in regard to which he took a pride in feeling that he had never laid any constraint upon his child. Manna implored him not to press the matter upon her then.
"Very well, you need not make up your mind till our return, but promise me to be friendly to him."
Manna could promise this, and Sonnenkamp smiled inwardly at the thought of his keeping Pranken in suspense until everything was finally arranged; if any insurmountable difficulty came up then, it could not change what would be already settled.
"You are now a Freifräulein," said he impressively and smiling to his child, "you shall be free in everything; only, to-day, let everything remain still in suspense. I cannot be dishonorable." He really meant, that he did not so much mind deceiving Pranken, but he added that it would be much more proper to consent or to refuse when they had been for a short time, in the full possession of their new rank. And with that, he took leave of his child with friendly words.
At noon there was great rejoicing at the villa, for the Ensign with a number of his comrades had arrived; they rode out with Roland, who was treated as one of themselves.
In accordance with Pranken's wish, they started that evening for the capital.
When Roland took leave of Eric's mother, she gave him a paper on which was written,—
On the rim of the Hero Roland's helmet was once and is again inscribed, in golden letters,—"The weapons of the whole world must leave me still unstained."
At the servants' table in the basement there was a big gap; the seat at the head, which belonged to Bertram, was not occupied by any one; Joseph and Lootz were also wanting, for they had gone with the old and the young master to the capital. The men and women at the table were whispering in a low tone; at last the head gardener said that the affair was no longer a secret; he maintained that, at the time of the Prince's visit, he had perceived the thing clearly. With a look of modest condescension, that plainly signified his regret at being obliged to exhibit his shrewdness before these people, he let out his words as if such folks could not appreciate what he had to say; Joseph alone, if he had been there, could have bestowed upon him suitable praise. The remaining servants, however, had an ill will against the self-asserting and pretentious head gardener. No one answered him. The big cook, who sat down to table very seldom, for she maintained that she ate hardly anything at all, now ventured to take Bertram's place, so that she could get up at any moment. She said that she had served with the nobility her whole life, and now it was going to be so again. Now the thing was out; and all felt as if a load had been taken off their hearts, since they were at liberty to speak of the matter. The second coachman turned up the skirts of his long waistcoat a little, and contemplated them with a searching look.
"Now then, buttons with coats-of-arms are coming," he said at last; "and our carriage will be new varnished, and a crest will be put on the coach-door; no more of the bare, solitary 'S'. Let Herr von Endlich's coachman say again that the S looks like an interrogation point, for no one really knows who Herr Sonnenkamp is."
One of the grooms was glad that on the horse-blankets a five-pointed coronet would stare everybody in the face.
The laundress complained of the great trouble it would be to mark all the linen anew, and the maid who took care of the silver was glad that she was going to have new spoons and forks, for everything would have to be melted over again and engraved anew.
"And the collars of the hounds will be renewed," exclaimed a hoarse voice.
Everybody laughed at the boy, who had charge of the dogs, who was grinning slyly at the idea of his having said something funny.
The old kitchen maid, who persisted in sitting on her stool and holding her plate in her lap, called over to the second cook:—
"We shall soon have a Frau Lootz. The master will now consent to the marriage."
"Has he given you his consent?"
"God be praised, I don't need it any more. But now he will remain here forever, and never go away any more. Now you can all marry."
The second gardener, the so-called Squirrel, declared with unction:—
"I should not have said a word, but if I were such a rich man I would never have had myself ennobled; no, I had rather be the richest commoner all up and down the Rhine, than the newest noble. I wouldn't flatter the nobility so much. If one has money, he is noble enough."
Everybody sneered at the forward fellow, and the head gardener looked at him with a patronizing air, nodding, his features saying at the same time, "I would never have given the simpleton credit for such an idea."
They now began to discuss what sort of livery the master would adopt, and whether he would have a "von" before his old name, or whether he would take an entirely new name. Finally the conversation turned upon Pranken's marriage. The fat cook reminded them that when Eric first came to the house, the old kitchen maid had prophesied that Eric would be the son of the house; now the reputation she had as a prophetess was gone, for the marriage was a fixed thing, and they were only delaying the announcement of it till the Fräulein was ennobled. Old Ursel made a wry face, looked about her and winked, pressed her apron against her mouth, and nodded triumphantly; at length she began to make her explanation:—
"I don't believe yet, that she will marry the light, twisted moustache. Remember what I say."
The laundress told the fat cook in confidence, that Joseph, the valet—she had observed it the whole winter through—was making love to the daughter of the landlord of the Victoria.
The conference in the basement lasted a long while; it was not broken up until a voice from overhead fell upon their ear with the message, that the horses would have to be harnessed again, night as it was, for the gracious Frau wished to drive out.
Where? No one knew.
"Yes, it's all very nice for him, he goes off on his pleasure, and leaves me here alone! What am I to do now?"
Thus Frau Ceres was complaining to Fräulein Perini, when Sonnenkamp, Pranken, and Roland were gone. With the hurry and restlessness of fever she was walking up and down the room, every now and then asking whether there was nothing to be done, and begging Fräulein Perini to tell her what she ought to do. The latter urged her to be composed, and asked her to sit down by her side, and fill out the ground at the other end of her embroidery.
"Yes," exclaimed Frau Ceres suddenly, "now I have it. I'll do something that will please him too; I'll embroider a sofa-cushion with our coat-of-arms. Besides, I have seen hassocks in the church with coats-of-arms embroidered on them; we'll have those too."
Fräulein Perini nodded.
"And something else yet!" said she.
"Really? Do you know of something else?" exclaimed Frau Ceres.
"Yes, it will be something well befitting your pious mind. You have already thought of it, only you have forgotten about it."
"What? what have I forgotten?"
"You intended, when the title was obtained, to embroider an altar-cloth at once."
"Yes, so we will. Did I ever say so? Ah! I forget everything. Ah, dear madame, stay with me always, advise me in everything. Have you a large, frame? Let us begin at once."
Fräulein Perini had everything ready, silk, worsted, gold-thread and silver-thread, frame and patterns. Frau Ceres actually made a few stitches, but then stopped and said:—
"I am trembling to-day; but I have commenced the altar-cloth, and now we will work on at it. You will help me, will you not?"
Fräulein Perini assented; she knew that she would have to do the whole herself, but Frau Ceres had now become somewhat calmer.
"Will you not send for the Priest, or hadn't we better go and visit him ourselves?"
"As you see fit."
"No, we had better be alone. Where is Manna, I wonder? She ought to come, she ought to be with her mother."
She rang and sent for Manna; but received for answer, that she had just gone to rest; she begged her mother to excuse her, she was very tired.
"But where is the Professorin? Oughtn't she to come and congratulate me?"
"She was with Fräulein Manna, and went home again," answered Fräulein Perini.
"She was in the house, and didn't come to see me?" said Frau Ceres, in an angry tone; "she shall come at once—this very moment. Send for her. I am the Mother, to me is honor first due, then to the daughter. Send for her, she must come at once."
Fräulein Perini had to gratify her, but with great caution, she impressed upon Frau Ceres the necessity of being quite composed and dignified in her manner toward the learned court-lady, who must not suppose that people would have to learn from her, at the outset, how to comport themselves in elevated positions.
"You should be rather quiet in your manner, Frau Baroness."
"Frau Baroness! Am I to expect that the Professorin will address me so?"
"Certainly, she is perfectly well bred."
Frau Ceres began once more to walk restlessly up and down the room. Every once in a while, she would stand still before the large mirror, and make a courtesy before some imaginary personage. The courtesy was very successful; she would lay her left hand upon her heart, her right hanging down naturally, and bend very low. On both sides of the mirror four branched candlesticks stood lighted, and once in a while Frau Ceres would put her hand to her brow.
"He has promised me a five-pointed coronet; it will become me, will it not?"
With an exceedingly gracious smile she bowed once more before the mirror.
Fräulein Perini heard outside the arrival of the Professorin; she went to meet her, and begged her to be very forbearing and circumspect with the much agitated Frau Ceres, and not call her anything but Frau Baroness.
"Why did you send me word that she was ill, and call me out in the middle of the night on that account?"
"I beg your pardon; you know that there are sick people who do not go to bed."
The Professorin understood how matters were.
When she entered, Frau Ceres, with her face still turned to the mirror, exclaimed:—
"Ah, that's good! It was gracious in you to come, my dear Professorin, very friendly—very kind. I am a good friend of yours, too."
She then turned round and held out her hand to the new-comer.
The Professorin did not congratulate her, nor did she call her Frau Baroness.
Frau Ceres now wished to know what her husband—but she corrected herself quickly and said: "I should say the Baron now; well—what has the Baron to do in town; must he pass a Knight's examination, and will he be knighted before the assembled multitude?"
The Professorin replied that there was nothing of the kind now, there would be simply a parchment patent delivered to him.
"Parchment—parchment?" repeated Frau Ceres several times to herself. "What is parchment?"
"It is dressed skin," said the Professorin in explanation.
"Ah, a scalp—a scalp. I understand. On it—will the patent be written with ink just the same as everything else that they write?"
She stared a long while before her, then after first shutting and again opening her eyes, she begged the Professorin to choose one of her finest dresses for herself; angry and astonished, the Professorin rose, but she sat down again hastily, and said that she was sensible of the kindness of Frau Sonnenkamp, but she no longer wore such fine dresses.
"Frau Sonnenkamp doesn't wear them any more either. Frau Sonnenkamp, Frau Sonnenkamp!" rejoined Frau Ceres.
She wished to remind the Professorin that she had not called her Frau Baroness.
"Have you ever known of the elevation of an American to the ranks of the nobility?" she asked all at once.
The Professorin said no.
When it was now mentioned that Herr Sonnenkamp had received the name of Baron von Lichtenburg from the castle which was rebuilding, Frau Ceres exclaimed:—
"Ah, that's it! that's it! Now I know! This very evening, this very moment, I will visit the castle—our castle! Then I shall sleep sound. You shall both accompany me."
She rang forthwith, and ordered the horses to be harnessed; both the ladies looked at each other, terror-stricken. What would come of it? Who knows but that on the road she might suddenly become distracted and break out into a fit of insanity?
The Professorin had sufficient presence of mind to say to Frau Ceres, that it would be much better to make the visit to the castle the next morning in the daytime; that if they went there in the night, it would make a great talk in the neighborhood.
"Why so? Is there a legend about our castle?"
There was indeed such a legend, but the Professorin took care not to tell it to her just then; she said she was ready to drive for an hour in the mild night, out on the high road with Frau Ceres; she was in hopes that it would quiet her.
And so the three women set out together through the darkness of that pleasant night. The Professorin had so arranged matters that there was not only a servant sitting beside the coachman, but also another on the back seat. She sought to provide against all contingencies. But this precaution was not necessary, for as soon as Frau Ceres was well seated in the carriage, she became very quiet, nay, she began to speak of her childhood.
She was at an early age left an orphan, the daughter of a captain on one of Sonnenkamp's ships, who had made long and very perilous voyages—yes, very perilous, she repeated more than once. After the death of her parents, Herr Sonnenkamp had taken her under his sole guardianship, and had her brought up by herself under the care of an old female servant, and of one man servant.
"He didn't let me learn anything, not anything at all," she complained once more; "he told me, 'It is better for you to remain as you are.' I was not quite fifteen years old when he married me."
She wept; but then, a moment after, clapping her hands like a child, she exclaimed,—
"It's all a story. It was another creature entirely that went through all this, that used to lie in her hammock all day long and dream out there, and now in Europe—but it is just as well, just as well, isn't it?" she said, and reached out her hands affectionately to the Professorin and Fräulein Perini.
"Do you think," she said, turning to the Professorin mysteriously, "do you think that our noble rank is altogether safe and sure?"
"After the decree is issued, everything is secure, but no one can say that anything is certain before it comes to pass; unforeseen obstacles may arise at the very last moment."
"What obstacles? what do you mean? what? what do you know? Tell me all."
The Professorin shuddered inwardly. The restlessness and terror, the wilful, overbearing, and weak nature of Frau Ceres were now for the first time made clear to her; here was a woman who sought to torment her husband by revealing to her child the father's past life.
With entreaties and commands Frau Ceres endeavored to get a statement of the possible obstacles, and she was only quieted by the Professorin assuring her that she knew of nothing definite. In spite of the darkness, Fräulein Perini noticed how painfully this untruth fell from the lips of the Professorin; in fact she was just able to let it pass her lips, because she felt herself in the situation of the physician who does not venture to tell his fever-stricken patient the bitter truth.
Frau Ceres lay back in the corner of the carriage; she went to sleep like a child that has cried itself out with temper. Fräulein Perini earnestly begged the Professorin to call Frau Ceres 'Baroness' when she woke up. She told the coachman to turn back; they were on their way home to the Villa.
Frau Ceres was hard to wake; they put her to bed. She thanked the two ladies sincerely, and smiled pleasantly, when the Professorin said at last,—
"I hope you'll sleep well, Frau Baroness."