CHAPTER XXVIIIA TREACHEROUS HAVEN"While some, whose souls the old serpent long had drawnDown ... hissed each at other's earWhat shall not be recorded—women they,Women, or what had been those gracious things...."(Geraint and Enid).She ran headlong down the passage, and struck against the burly figure of the Burgrave himself. The omen of trunks had not yet met him. He was in high good humour. Indeed, he was of those that have no scent for omens. His kinglet, but now, had promised him, for no special reason that appeared yet, territorial honour and rich regard, and he had no doubt of the royal power."Whither so fast, my maid?" he inquired, holding her not unkindly.She clung to him with passion: "O, Uncle Ludo, take me away from this place! Take me away to-night, this hour, at once! Let us go back to the dear old Burg!""Why, what is this?" He pushed her from him, good-humoured, bantering, fuddled with the royal Sillery. His sovereign and he had pledged a bumper to the heiress of Wellenshausen's altered prospects. "Na, na," said the Burgrave, and wagged his head jocosely. "Somebody would not be in such a hurry to run away if somebody knew what her old uncle had planned for her. Ha, my dear, that hasty marriage was never more to my liking than to yours; and now we have a new husband for you. Aye, and a place at court! Hey, little Sidonia! Such a fine husband, such a fine position!"The girl raised her eyes and desperately scanned his empurpled countenance. Again the Burgrave archly shook his head, and laughter rumbled in his huge body.—Aye, aye, it was the way of women to feign coyness, but men knew what was good for them. One must humour them from time to time, but never yield.—She read something implacable in the stupidity of his eye. She thought of the old wild boars in the forest: as well might she try to appeal to one of those!He clutched her hands in his hot grasp; a faintness came over her."Aunt Betty is packing," she cried wildly, inspired by woman's wit. "Don't you know? ... She is going back to Austria.""What?" roared the Burgrave. He released her and cantered sidelong down the passage to Betty's room.It was blow upon blow. Sidonia stood, trying to collect her scattered thoughts. Suddenly Eliza came upon her, tripping from the outer door upon gay sandalled foot. She flung her shawl from her head at sight of Sidonia, and her eyes danced under dishevelled curls."We are going to Vienna, mademoiselle," she announced breathlessly, "and no later than to-night. I have just ordered the post-chaise for madame. One cannot trust that Kurtz. It is a great secret. Will not mademoiselle come with us? One is so happy at Vienna! And mademoiselle will probably meet the young count quite easily there—or somebody else just as handsome," added Eliza. Her eyes rollicked.Sidonia looked at the gleeful, unscrupulous, excited face and recoiled. Wine flowed as freely in the menials' hall, on fête nights, at the Palace of Bellevue as in the salons. And Eliza was one who would profit of the occasion. But now the Burgrave's voice rose from the inner room with sudden clangour. The maid, suddenly sobered, caught Sidonia's wrist."Ah,ciel," she cried, "what is passing within there? And we, who thought monsieur safe away, in attendance of the King! ... Why, mademoiselle, how white you are, and how you tremble!" Immoral she might be, like her mistress; but, unlike her, she was kind. "Ah, he was not there, then, to-night," she proceeded with rapid intuition. "Listen, Mademoiselle Sidonia, since he won't come, if I were you I should just go to him.... And quick, quick, before he signs. He can't turn you away ... even if he wanted it.Sapristi, but you are still his wife."A fresh outburst of wrangling voices in Betty's rooms here drew her curiosity in another direction."I must go and be with poor madame," she exclaimed; the twinkle in her eye, over the delight of witnessing the marital scene, contrasted oddly with the pious devotion of her tone."Tu verras que cela va rater encore cette fois," she was telling herself philosophically, as she hurried away."If you want help," had said the soft-voiced old lady, "ask forla Grande Maréchale de la Cour." If ever a poor daughter of Eve wanted help, it was surely Sidonia, standing between the Scylla of nameless evil and the Charybdis of dire humiliation.A refuge for the night, the loan of a small sum, to enable her to gain the Forest House—for Sidonia was still kept like a child and had no purse of her own—surely, it was small assistance that she required. She paused but to catch up a travelling cloak in her room; then, seeking the outer corridor again, bade the first valet on her way guide her to the apartment of Madame la Grande Maréchale. She would wait, she planned, for the great lady's return from festivity. There must be safety where such gentle old age presided; and good counsel; perchance even an escort, forthcoming on the morrow for her journey back to the Thuringian forest.The Maréchale's apartments were on the ground floor, and Sidonia thought fortune favoured her when the porter informed her that "Her Excellency" herself had that instant entered. Still more at ease felt she when the pretty old lady received her with open arms and cooing words of welcome:"Ma belle enfant, this is well! I had presentiments. I expected you. That great bear of a Chancellor, your uncle, and the little minx of a wife he has ... (linnet-head, wasp-temper, ferret-heart—I know the kind! One look at her,ma chère, it was enough): that was no place for you. Nay, you wanted a friend, and it is well you came to me, very well." She nodded; and the bird-of-paradise plume in her gauzy turban quivered over her white curls.Sidonia had to struggle with rising tears; but they were tears of gratitude, of relief. Madame la Maréchale patted her on the shoulder, stooped to embrace her; there was about her a delicate atmosphere of Parma powder and amber-scented laces."It is good, my child," she murmured, "to have a friend at court—some one who knows the ways of it.Ma petite, you and I, we'll do great things together! Nay, but we will talk no more now. A little supper would not come amiss. Hey, what have you eaten to-day?"She rang a silver bell, and a smartsoubretteappeared, who stared with bold, black eyes at the visitor."Bettine, my good girl," said the suave lady, "take ... mademoiselle into my chamber, and arrange me her coiffure before supper.—We must be beautiful," she added, turning pleasantly again to Sidonia, "for we may have a guest.""This way, mademoiselle," said Bettine, briefly.As she led Sidonia across the threshold of a violet-scented, violet-hued bower, the lady's dulcet tones called after her—"And then, Bettine, return to me here. I have to speed thee with a little note.""It is well, madame," answered the French girl. (There was no "fashion" in Westphalia without Gallic handmaids.)Sidonia looked around, and then at the girl's hard face as she closed the door. It seemed to her as if a bog quivered under her feet where she had thought to find firm footing. Her ears had been first disagreeably struck by the word "mademoiselle," and the emphasis that the old lady had placed on it.Mademoiselle!—to her who had so clearly introduced herself as the wife of Count Kielmansegg. The reference to an expected visitor next filled her with inchoate suspicion, which the order concerning a note intensified. She now read an insolent meaning in Bettine's eyes as they appraised her."Whom does your mistress expect to supper?" she asked, with sharpness.The girl shrugged her shoulders. "Madame la Maréchale's supper-parties are very amusing," she replied familiarly in her fluent but strangely accented German. "Little suppers—very amusing, very discreet. Mademoiselle will amuse herself to-night ... oh, she may be sure she will amuse herselfroyally!" She paused on the word with an odious smile, then pursued familiarly: "The great thing is that mademoiselle should be beautiful. Voyons, we must off with this cloak. Will mademoiselle sit down? Oh, how lovely is mademoiselle's figure! but her hair—mademoiselle forgives?—her hair done in despite of all sense!"Sidonia had felt it before she had the certainty into what a trap she had walked. Now she knew; and with the clearness of her conviction, she also knew what she had to do. She sat down silently, as bidden; and, while the distasteful touch of the Maréchale's maid played in her hair, made a steady inventory of the room. There was no door but the one leading back into the boudoir; great windows were curtained away behind the dressing-table."Oh, how much better is mademoiselle like this!" cried Bettine, falling back to admire her work.Sidonia gave her own reflection an anxious scrutiny. One word, one look, one sign of weakness, and her hastily formed plan might be frustrated.... Beyond that possibility was the horror upon which she could not look, ... upon which she would never look! For, at the worst, there was still a refuge. The fiddler's words—"The release of a clean, proud soul—that is joy!" came to her ever and again as upon a strain of his own music, and ever with fresh strength and comfort."Oh, how beautiful is mademoiselle!" cried Bettine again, this time with genuine enthusiasm. "Positively, it is flames she has in her glance, and no rouge could beat me the colour of those cheeks.""Bettine...!" rose the Maréchale's silver voice from the next room; and Sidonia, flinging herself into her part with the instinct of the defenceless, smiled gaily on the girl as she bade her go."Mademoiselle will not forget 'tis I who has adorned her—when she is in power?" insinuated the Maréchale's maid."I shall not forget," said Sidonia between her teeth. She seized the handle of the door as it closed between them: fortunately the Maréchale liked discreet hinges, and Sidonia was able, noiselessly, to draw it the necessary fraction of an inch apart that she might listen. There was not a tremor in her hands; she held her breath lest a rustle of silk should betray her. The strong spirit rises to the great situation.There was whispering within. The ear of the heiress of Wellenshausen had been trained in forest glades, full of the small sounds of lesser lives. She caught a word here, a word there."... The note ... in his Majesty's own hands.... Thou hast well understood, my girl?""Yes, Excellence."Bettine's whisper carried far. But now the Maréchale made a softer communication, of which the listener could gather no import, but Bettine's answer again gave the dreadful clue. It was emitted with a laugh. "Oh, no; your Excellency is wrong—we are not so scared as all that, believe me!"A dulcet titter joined the note of the servant's mirth."At any rate, the little bird is in the cage," said the Maréchale, as she laughed.It was more than enough. Sidonia closed the door. She found a bolt which moved willingly under her fingers. Then a frenzy of haste came upon her. The cloak over her pale dress—the hood over Bettine's fine coiffure! And now the window! People who shut up a little bird in a cage should make sure that the bars are close enough to keep it safe; for the bird has wings, and its heart beats towards freedom, towards the mate, towards the nest! The Maréchale's apartments were on therez-de-chaussée; but had they been on the top-most floor, that window would yet have been the way of Sidonia's flight.Oh, how deliriously the chill, pure air beat upon her face after that evil hothouse atmosphere! By the stillness and the fragrance, by the soft earth under her feet, she knew she had alighted into the palace garden. It was a murky night, and the rain was falling; the distant lights of the park gates glimmered fitfully.Sidonia had no idea whither to turn; but the intention of her heart was undeviating as the flight of the homing bird. There was only one refuge for her, only one place for her—her husband's arms. Her road was clear: she was going to Steven, and, after that, nothing would ever matter again.She set off running in the direction of the gateway lamps. In a minute her light ball-slippers were soaked with wet, clogged with mud; her narrow skirts clung against her silk stockings; now she brushed against low bushes, now nearly fell. She could run no more; she must grope her way.But presently her eyes became more accustomed to the dimness. A double row of marble statues, mounting ghostly guard on each side of the great alley, showed white through the trees. She knew her bearings now. Yonder fantastic group of lights in front was the Orangerie, illumined in honour of the royal fête. Fortunately for her, the skies to-night were not such as to tempt guests to al fresco rambling. Further, to the left, twinkled the lamps of the town, reflected through the branches in the waters of the Kleine-Fulda, which ran parallel to the Avenue, as she knew.From the Friedrichsthor—the great gate of the palace grounds—came distant sounds of voices, laughter and calls. Through that issue she dared hardly venture. Even as she stood, hesitating, the rumble of an approaching carriage grew out of the night. She turned and fled in the opposite direction—there must be minor exits from the park, surely, and, so long as she was within the precincts of the palace, terror would dog her steps.Her feet once on the firm sand of the alley, she girded up her impeding skirts. The dim stone figures on each side seemed, to her excited fancy, to move their heads and bend over to stare in wonder, to bid her haste away, wise in old knowledge of the guilty secrets of such a court. Somehow, these silent figures were company to her and she missed their presence when she plunged into the first turning which, she trusted, would lead towards the town. Yet, the darkness of the trees closing about her brought a new sense of protection. She was not of those who feel the night-horror of the woods; the trees were her friends from childhood; they knew her and she them. The softness and damp smell of the autumn leaves beneath her tread were grateful to her senses. The sound of the Kleine-Fulda on her stony bed guided her way to a narrow Chinese bridge over the ribbon of water. Soon she had to advance more slowly once again and feel her way: here the ground began to ascend, the trees to give place to shrubs; the path doubled and twisted suddenly. A blank wall sprang at her out of the gloom. She drew a quick breath. An illumined window-pane blinked:—it was the hoped-for gate of her escape, could she now but elude the sentry's challenge or carry herself with such assurance as to be allowed a passage.But in Jerome's kingdom it was the unexpected that usually happened. By the gate stood, indeed, the inevitable sentry-box; but as, with her heart beating in her throat, Sidonia approached tiptoe with endless precautions, behold, it was empty! The gate itself was open. From within the guardian's lodge, behind that blinking window, came a merry burst of song and laughter. Clearly it was "like master like man." If Jerome thought that the enjoyment of the hour was the most urgent business of existence, so did his servants, including his park sentries. There was no doubt of the wholeheartedness of the entertainment in the side lodge of the royal garden that night.CHAPTER XXIXTHE HOMING BIRD"Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee...."(The Taming of the Shrew).The street into which she stepped was ill-lighted, and contained but a few poor houses facing the park walls. It seemed to lead downwards to the open country and upwards to the heart of the town.Lifting her torn and draggled skirts as neatly as she could, and pulling the folds of her hood and cloak more closely about her, she started with decision on the upward way. Here she must go sedately, though the hammering of her own pulses seemed like the footsteps of pursuers and a mad impulse, ever and anon, seized her to run. The gloom of the park had been infinitely less terrible than the town with its staring belated wayfarers, its circles of light under the hanging oil lamps, its nauseous strips of darkness where the miserable houses seemed to touch each other above her head, and where gutters mingled in noisomeness down the middle of the street. She looked back on the solitude, with its clean pine breath, as a haven of shelter. But she tramped unfalteringly the maze of dirty streets, only pausing twice to inquire the way.The first time she was kindly answered by the poor faded woman she had stopped.... The Hôtel de l'Aigle Impérial was in the Koenig's Platz. To reach it one must take to the left, then to the right, till one crossed the Friedrich's Platz; then, keeping along the Obere Koenig's Gasse, one would find herself by the Hotel.... The woman wrapped her thin shawl closer about her shoulders, smiled vaguely in response to Sidonia's thanks and sped on—God knows to what miserable home. Trying to follow her instructions, Sidonia, chilled, fatigued and bewildered, soon began to doubt again, and requested the help of the next reputable-looking being of her sex on her path. This was a stout, red-faced dame, followed by a serving wench with a lantern; some excellent business woman on the way to fetch her man from the beerhouse, doubtless. She measured Sidonia from head to foot, caught the gleam of the muddied satin of her skirts, of the pearls at her throat, and suddenly, instead of replying to the meek question, began to rate her in round dialect for a trollop and a strumpet: "Du, mein Jott, and she so young, too!"Most of the epithets were meaningless to Sidonia; but voice and eye were not. And when the virtuous dame proceeded to threats of night-watch and lock-up, the girl fairly took to her heels and ran blindly.When labouring heart and panting lungs forced a halt upon her, she found herself in the very region of her seeking. By the wide space around her, the better lighting, the statue dominating in the centre of the tree-planted square, this could be no other than the Friedrich's Platz. But even as she paused to draw a quieter breath, before proceeding again, a new alarm was upon her.Reeling as they advanced, linked together arm in arm, roaring out a chorus, the real tune of which was a matter of conjecture, three fantastic figures turned into the square from a side street, and suddenly confronted her. Students they were proclaimed in every long lock of hair, every extravagant item of attire; in the high boots and the spurs, the scarves, the clanking rapiers.The Platz, with its staid burgherlike respectability, was filled with tipsy clamour. Judging by the colours profusely displayed and the bellowed words of the chorus, a bellicose patriotism was the night's inspiration. But, not content with wine-jug and harmony, the singers were not proof against lighter relaxation, as became evident upon their catching sight of the girl under the shadow of the trees."A prize, a prize!" shouted he who seemed to be the leader of the three, a red-headed Hercules. He took a lurching run in front of his companions, seized Sidonia playfully by the shoulders, and pulled her under the light of the nearest lamp.The furious gesture with which she flung him off revealed again the ill-timed splendour of her attire. For a moment the three students stood staring open-mouthed. Then he who seemed the soberest of the party—he had a sleek impertinent face and an air of jocose solemnity—broke into cackling laughter:"Positively, a bird from the tyrant's aviary," he cried. "A foreign, French bird! By all the laws of civilized warfare, a prize of the captor! ... Matam!" he pursued; in a vile French, bowed extravagantly, seized Sidonia's hand and tucked it against his side. "Matam, fly to the guardianship of the Law."[image]"Positively, a bird from the tyrant's aviary,"he cried."A foreign, French bird! By all the laws of civilized warfare, a prize of the captor!""Nay, take refuge within the bosom of the Church," interrupted the third, intoning the words: "Raise your glances heavenwards!" He shot out a black arm and lifted her chin with two dank fingers reeking of canaster.Sidonia, who had been paralyzed with fright and the sense of her own helplessness, here once more struck herself free—this time with a wild cry for the watch. Her cry was answered by shouts and cat-calls; and now, with a mighty clatter of spurred boots, a fresh detachment ofStudiosijoined the advance party. As in a nightmare, Sidonia found herself the centre of a struggling drunken laughing babel, which presently resolved itself into a circle that wheeled, stamping and jingling in time to a ribald chorus.One of the dancers suddenly broke the ring; a flaring bearded face was thrust forward."A kiss, matamazell, and long live Westphalia!"At this last insult the terror of the girl gave place to overpowering anger. She struck the coarse face so valiant a blow with her open palm, that, already none too steadily balanced, the red-haired giant staggered and would have fallen but for an officious comrade. A howl of laughter rose from the rest of the gang.But as Sidonia, tossing back her hood, broke into vigorous German, silence succeeded to clamour. The sight of that head, so extraordinarily young, so golden in the lamp-shine, struck the group with overwhelming surprise. And upon surprise came shame, as the meaning of the words that fell indignantly from Sidonia's lips, pierced to the fuddled brains. Wild, dissipated boys they were, but not vicious at the core of their German hearts.Here was a girl, a lady—more, a country-woman of their own; and, in their own tongue, she was telling them what she thought of them. She had always been so proud of being a German, and now she was ashamed, ashamed to think that Germans could so behave to a woman! Students, too, "nobles of learning," patriots, they called themselves, and to offer such a spectacle to theWelsch! She had fled from the palace down there because she had thought it not the right place for a good German woman: now she knew she would have been safer among the French....Here a groan escaped a youth less tipsy or more susceptible than the rest, the quickest at any rate to catch the galling significance of this reproach. It was echoed here and there from the listening circle, by sounds of remorse and dismay. The ring melted apart; one or two caps were lifted, there was a shuffling of feet, as the most abashed slunk away. She stood, a flaming spot on each cheek, head held high, still flashing scorn and fury upon the remainder, when, with the perpetual irony of fate, the help that would have been so valuable to her a few minutes ago, and now unneeded, arrived upon the scene.A burly watchman, bearing a lantern in one hand, and in the other a halbert with which he struck the pavement at rhythmic intervals, came striding upon them."Come, sirs, come, sirs, this is no manner of behaviour! No scandal in the streets, I beg. Honest folk should be in bed this hour! Disperse, disperse,meine Herren! And as for theMädelthere——"He flung the light upon Sidonia's face and stopped, he also astounded. But she had caught in his words the music of a well-beloved and familiar accent."Ach, Gott, Freund!" she cried, in his own speech, flinging out both hands towards him, "do you come from my Thuringia? Then I am safe! By these Westphalians to-night, I, an unprotected woman, have been cruelly insulted."Thuringian wits are not specially quick; but Thuringian hearts are sound, as Sidonia knew, and the appeal of the home language went straight to the watchman's. He flung himself before the girl, and turned threateningly upon her molesters, raising his halbert in a fashion which in any other circumstances would have been fiercely resented by students as against their academic privileges.But to-night the situation was hardly one that admitted of academic haughtiness. The over-cheerful band scattered like night birds, here and there a shamefaced youth lifting his ridiculous head-gear before vanishing.Sidonia and her countryman were alone. Then he, a stout veteran, grey-whiskered, with a comfortable fatherly presence, turned a shrewd, kind, yet grave scrutiny upon her:"Na, child!" he exclaimed; "and what, in the name of God, brings you in the streets at this hour?"She told him the bare truth, down to her name: how she had left the palace to seek the protection of her husband, who was at an inn in the town.The old man nodded two or three times comprehendingly. He knew the Chancellor, as small people know the great; knew Wellenshausen, as who did not know the noble name on the marches of Thuringia; knew that a Thuringian lady was wise to leave that place yonder—with a jerk of his lantern. But why came she apart from her husband at all—how had he left her there?"It was against his will; but I was angry with him," said Sidonia, ingenuously. She looked up at the old face, like a child, and tears welled into her eyes.The good man gave a chuckle. A great lady was the daughter of Wellenshausen, the greatest lady in his own country; but to him, in very truth, to-night only a foolish child under his guardianship. He shook his head at her and began to chide in homely fashion.Aye, aye, it was very wrong for a woman to disobey her husband. All good German women were submissive to their lords. Now she saw what dangers surrounded rebellious wives! She was right to go back to him. She must be humble and ask forgiveness. Aye, aye, he would guide her to the hotel door. Certainly! Was it likely indeed that he would leave her till he had seen her safe within?He shifted his lantern into the hand that held the halbert, and gladly Sidonia felt his rough fingers close on her wrist. She went beside him, weak now and shaken, and listened in meekness to his homily. By-and-by, finding her in such good disposition, he endeavoured to beguile the way with more general topics. The Thuringian dialect became broader and broader as he foretold the clean-out of honest Germany from theWelschintruders; the downfall of the monkey tyrant, and the approaching good days when true-minded folk would come by their own again in Westphalia. Eh, it would not be long, he added mysteriously. Na, he knew what he knew. It was a good thing she was out of the French palace, for more reasons than one—aye, aye.Sidonia could have cried for joy when, emerging upon the little round Koenig's Platz, she saw the gilt eagle, illumined by a red lamp, shine out in sanguinary grandeur from the front of the old German house. On the doorstep she once again offered both her hands to the watchman; he shook them cordially."Thank you, thank you!" she said. "Oh, I wish I had something to give you to remember me by! ... I have not any money." She made a hesitating gesture towards a ring on her finger. He interrupted her:"Let that alone, child—I shall not forget you. Good night ... and be good!"He knocked for her; stood firmly planted on the pavement, watching her entrance and smiling into his whiskers.* * * * *"I am the Countess Kielmansegg," said Sidonia to the sleepy porter. "Show me to the count's room."Her tone was imperious. The man stared sullenly a moment, then swallowed a yawn; he had but just been roused from a comfortable nap to take up the night work, and the only perception awake in him was an acute sense of injury. Without a word, he turned and led the way up the square, dark stairs to the second floor. Before Steven's door his slouch came to a halt; he lifted a hand to knock, but she arrested him."Is that the room? You may go," she said.She waited till his heavy foot had tramped the whole downward way, then, with a sudden overwhelming feeling that if she hesitated now her courage would after all fail her, she turned the handle of the door and went quickly in.The room was deserted. As she realized this, Sidonia's heart seemed to empty itself of the hopes, the yearnings, even the terror, which had so filled it these last hours. All became a blank, a void. Never for a moment had she contemplated the possibility of Steven's absence. She closed the door and sank dully on the first chair. Presently the sense of shelter, the warmth about her, the serenity of the silence and solitude, began to soothe her into comfort. She lifted her head and looked around. The room was lighted by an oil lamp on the table; fire was lapping in the china stove; sundry chattels of Steven's were scattered about; his valise gaped, still open, in a corner. No fear, then, but that he would return to-night.The vague fragrance of the lavender scent he liked brought his presence suddenly and vividly to her. The little bride melted into tears. She was worn out; her aching feet stung her as she held them against the warm porcelain of the stove. Her whole being seemed melted, her spirit broken; but there was a balm sweeter than triumph in this hour of her woman's surrender. All Betty's words, her gibes and threats, even what had seemed to be actual proofs of Steven's deceit, passed from her mind, as if washed away by these healing tears. There are moments when the soul can see beyond facts.Presently, in the general relaxation of mind and body, the exhaustion consequent on the fatigues and emotions of the day overcame her. She sank into vague brief sleeps, to awake, her heart beating in her throat with reminiscences of past alarms. Thus she started at length from a vivid dream that the Burgrave, Betty, d'Albignac and Jerome had tracked her and were carrying her back to the palace. She came to full consciousness of solitude, but could not still the wild fear at her heart.... Betty's cunning was as a sleuth-hound's—Betty would well know where to trace her.... Sidonia had given her name to the porter. It would be bootless to lock the door, for one thrust of the Burgrave's shoulder would dispose of sounder defences. They would be dragging her away; Steven would return and never know! ... She rose, shaking in every limb, and looked desperately round.Then a thought sprang into her brain, quaint and childish, yet to her an inspiration of angels. The great old German bed in the alcove was hung with curtains; she would creep into its shelter and draw the yellow damask folds close around her. There would she be safe as a bird in her nest in the leaves—in a room within a room. And, hidden, she could listen for her husband's step.CHAPTER XXXDAWN MUSIC"Wir fuhren allein im dunkelnPostwagen die ganze nacht;Wir ruhten einander am Herzen,Wir haben gescherzt und gelacht...Doch als es morgen tagte,Mein kind, wie staunten wir!Denn zwischen uns sass Amor,Der blinde Passagier...."HEINE.The previous day, after his interview with Sidonia, Steven had spent most of his time searching for the fiddler. At first he had hunted for him, on the impulse of his anger, more for the mere relief of upbraiding him and of railing to some one upon the perversity of his bride, than for the sake of counsel. But later, as temper gave place to more serious thought, and the young man's better nature asserted itself, he longed for his friend that he might discuss with him the means of meeting this most untoward trick of fate, of safeguarding the headstrong child they both loved from the danger of her surroundings.It was chiefly the old quarters of the town that saw his disconsolate roaming. There was not a homely wine-garden, not a poor beer-house, where he did not stop and inquire. Had he been in the mood to notice such things, he might have been struck by the strange atmosphere of ferment brooding everywhere, especially in the purlieus beyond the river. There was a buzz about Cassel, like the hum of the swarming hive; as yet inarticulate, but ominous of wrath. It was perhaps, however, this very unconsciousness that preserved him from some danger on his vain quest. Once or twice he was followed; in most places he was looked at askance. One truculent host met his question with another: what did he want of Geiger-Hans? But the simplicity of the answer disarmed suspicion:"He is my friend; I want his help."The master of "The Great Tun" became immediately pleasant and conversational.—No, Geiger-Hans had not been about here for many weeks, more was the pity; he was wanted.Disheartened and tired out, at last Steven returned to his hotel; but not to rest. He indited a letter to the Burgrave, demanding his wife in the name of the law of every country, and ending up with a scarcely veiled threat as to his power of making himself unpleasant to the Lord of Wellenshausen. Then, after having devoted some special attention to his attire, he again sought the palace gates. When he had left his letter with the porter, together with a gratuity so noble that it could not fail to buy the promptitude of delivery he desired, he demanded audience of one of the chamberlains.On receipt of the fine coroneted card, the distinguished traveller was courteously entertained by Jerome's official, who volunteered to send him a formal invitation to the court concert on the morrow. Steven accepted with alacrity, and the urbane chamberlain further promised personally to introduce Count Waldorff-Kielmansegg to his royal master on the occasion. They parted with civilities on both sides, and Steven, feeling that the way was unexpectedly smoothed before him, passed the evening in more cheerful mood. Some instinct, rather than any set reason, had kept him from mentioning his connection with the Lord of Wellenshausen.The next day he had the trivial, yet by no means easy, task to accomplish of procuring fitting garments for a court function. A misgiving at the non-appearance of the promised invitation began to press upon him as the day waned; and though he rated himself for being as nervous as a woman, and found a thousand good reasons to explain away the omission, it was with a boding heart that he set out, full early, for the palace. The Burgrave had treated his letter with contemptuous silence. Was it possible that there was a connection here with the non-fulfilment of the chamberlain's offered civility? If so, Steven had mightily blundered.The uninvited guest had planned to march boldly into the palace without further ado. But, somewhat to his surprise, and much to his discomfiture, there was an unusual and severe watch at Jerome's doors to-night. He was checked, questioned, his card was demanded of him, and on the representation that he had been verbally invited by the chamberlain, he was sent from pillar to post, and finally landed in a small ante-room, at the door of which a couple of lackeys presently stationed themselves as if to keep watch upon him. With burning indignation and an inexpressible sense of helplessness, he heard the music strike up far away; heard the gay passage of luckier guests without; in the intervals, the whispers and muffled laughter of the servants.After prolonged delay, a majestic individual, with a gilt chain round his neck, entered and informedM. le Comtethat his excellency the chamberlain deeply regretted his error of the previous day, but that the lists had already been closed. It had been deemed that, not receiving the card,M. le Comtewould have fully understood.Steven rose to his feet, turned a white face and blazing eyes on the official; the amazing slight to himself, conveyed by the flimsy and improbable excuse, sank into insignificance before the sense of the trickery that must have prompted it."Fetch me ink and paper," he demanded; "the matter does not end here."With that suavity which, opposed to passion, becomes impertinence, the old man bowed and disappeared. Shortly afterwards the same porter whom Steven had interviewed the day before sidled into the room, bearing the required writing materials. As he bent across the young man, he whispered in friendly tones, one eye warily upon the watchers at the door:"The gracious one would do well to be gone at his best speed. Should he give more trouble he may be arrested; odd orders are given at the palace to-night, please his graciousness."It did not need long reflection to show Steven the wisdom of taking the hint. He had a sudden maddening vision of himself imprisoned, helpless, and Sidonia unprotected here. No one attempted to stop him; he passed out, unmolested, into the wet night. Long and restlessly he roamed the park, and then the streets, revolving endless and impossible plans of action. No plan, no solution, reached, he at last took his moody way back to the Friedrich's Platz.Perhaps Geiger-Hans might have been inspired of their need! Perhaps, faint hope, he might find him waiting at the Aigle Imperial.A very different personality sat in expectation of his return, feeding patience with cognac in the public room. It was General d'Albignac, the King's Master of the Horse.At sight of Steven this worthy sprang to his feet and saluted with a great air of cordiality, running over the Austrian's name and title, and announcing his own in French, all glib affability."We have met before, sir," sternly said Steven, who was in fine humour for destruction."I think not," answered the equerry. His eyes had a red glitter which denied his smile. "I think not,M. le Comte. Nay, I am positive it is the first time I have had the pleasure of addressing you."Steven shrugged his shoulders."Have it so," he said contemptuously, and glanced at the cheek against which his hand had once exulted. "After all, it is you who had the more striking cause to remember.—What do you want with me?" he added, with British bluntness.D'Albignac's smile was stiff over his white teeth; his fingers twitched upon the bundle of papers he had pulled out of his sabretasche. But the Master of the Horse had no illusions as to the length of Jerome's power; and, on the other hand, that document, once properly endorsed, meant his own future prosperity. It was worth a minute's urbanity towards one whom otherwise it would have been relief to hew down."I have business with you—business of delicacy, sir; I trust, easily despatched. A short private conversation between us." He cast a meaning look at the French officers playing piquet and tric-trac in their proximity."I can conceive no business," said Steven, "between us, sir, but one. Nevertheless, come to my room. I can promise you that my answer will be of quick despatch."So he walked up the ill-lit stairs, with d'Albignac clanking at his heels, and pushed his way into his bed chamber before him—the creature should not be treated otherwise than as the dog he was."Shut the door," said he, "and say your say."Again d'Albignac successfully fought his own fury."A matter of delicacy, as I said, my dear sir....Mademoiselle de Wellenshausenis, you are aware, now at the palace?""Are you speaking of Countess Waldorff-Kielmansegg?" put in Steven, threatening."Immaterial, now!" deprecated the other. "The marriage, I understand, is regretted on both sides. Your signature here, and we see to the rest."Steven listened with outward calmness."We?" echoed he. "What have you to say to this, Colonel d'Albignac?"It is not always by weight of hand or stroke of sword that man can have his sweetest vengeance upon man. D'Albignac, as he replied, knew that he was at last paying off scores:"The King," he said—"my King, His Majesty Jerome, takes an interest in the lady."Jerome...! This then explained all, explained the non-appearance of the card, the hostile reception at the palace. Sidonia, the child who had lain in his arms, and Jerome! Steven felt suddenly as if the clasps of his cloak were strangling him. He tore them apart, falling back two or three steps, that he might fling the burden on the bed. After that first flaming revelation there came to him a deadly calmness. He did not in the least know what he was about to do; it was quite possible that he might have to execute justice upon Jerome's dog before reaching Jerome himself; in any case, he must have his limbs free. The grating voice went on:"It is my sovereign's desire that the young heiress of Wellenshausen should espouse a member of his own household. And his Majesty's choice has fallen upon your servant here. I may say the charming creature herself is not unwilling."In that dangerous white mood of passion which can simulate highest composure, Steven heard without wincing.—Mechanically he gathered his cloak into a bundle and laid his hand on the curtain of his bed.—Then he stood silent, as if stricken, staring through the narrow opening of the damask folds, his back turned to his enemy.D'Albignac rubbed his hands and chuckled. Was not all this better than the most sounding return slap in the face? Better even than feeling the easy steel run through flesh, grate against bone?"And when my royal master," he pursued, "has a notion in his head,mille tonnerres, he is no more to be kept back than his Imperial brother from victory. Oh, he is of an impetuosity;d'une fougue, d'une verve!... more eager even than myself, the lucky bridegroom, to have these papers executed. 'If you wait till to-morrow, d'Albignac, my friend,' he said to me, 'the count may be gone, and that may mean delay.... Intolerable!' Hence,M. le Comte, my unceremonious visit, and at this undue hour—already excused, no doubt! Your signature, please, here. I can be witness. One stroke of the pen, and you make three people happy ... not to speak of yourself!"The cloak glided from Count Kielmansegg's arm on to the floor. He closed the curtains delicately and faced his visitor."If you will leave the deed, General," said he, "I will peruse it to-night, and you can have it back in the morning."He took the paper with marked courtesy from d'Albignac's hand. His face was paler than before, but there was a singular smile upon it, a singular light in the eyes. The youth's composure completely deceived and imposed upon d'Albignac, who, indeed, was none of the subtle-witted."An annulment is easier to secure than a divorce, and makes less of a scandal, does it not?" he said, with an insufferable air of intelligence."I am quite of your opinion," answered Steven."Sacrebleu, and the girl is the greatest heiress in Westphalia! What a morgue these Austrians have! ... The merest hint, it is enough with them!" thought the General as he drew a noisy breath of laughter and relief. "Enchanted," he went on aloud, "enchanted, my young friend, to find you so reasonable. I see you take me—— Ah, yes; these are sad times; and the soldier of fortune (such as I am) cannot afford to be squeamish. Hey! the King sups with Countess Kielmansegg.... Nay, shall we not say ...Mademoiselle de Wellenshausen?... to-night, at this very moment!"Steven's smile flashed broadly a second. "He would grin on the rack," thought d'Albignac."A demain, General," said Steven, "but not before noon, please."His tone was quiet, even soft. He advanced without hurry towards his visitor, tapped him lightly on the shoulder and pointed to the door.The two stood looking, eye into eye; and the fighting brute rose again clamouring in d'Albignac's huge body. But something inscrutable in Steven's glance, its fire, almost its gaiety, made him quail. He felt that here he was more than matched, and broke ground with a clumsy bow—failure for irony. His great boots resounded down the wooden stairs.
CHAPTER XXVIII
A TREACHEROUS HAVEN
"While some, whose souls the old serpent long had drawnDown ... hissed each at other's earWhat shall not be recorded—women they,Women, or what had been those gracious things...."(Geraint and Enid).
"While some, whose souls the old serpent long had drawnDown ... hissed each at other's earWhat shall not be recorded—women they,Women, or what had been those gracious things...."(Geraint and Enid).
"While some, whose souls the old serpent long had drawn
Down ... hissed each at other's ear
What shall not be recorded—women they,
Women, or what had been those gracious things...."
(Geraint and Enid).
(Geraint and Enid).
She ran headlong down the passage, and struck against the burly figure of the Burgrave himself. The omen of trunks had not yet met him. He was in high good humour. Indeed, he was of those that have no scent for omens. His kinglet, but now, had promised him, for no special reason that appeared yet, territorial honour and rich regard, and he had no doubt of the royal power.
"Whither so fast, my maid?" he inquired, holding her not unkindly.
She clung to him with passion: "O, Uncle Ludo, take me away from this place! Take me away to-night, this hour, at once! Let us go back to the dear old Burg!"
"Why, what is this?" He pushed her from him, good-humoured, bantering, fuddled with the royal Sillery. His sovereign and he had pledged a bumper to the heiress of Wellenshausen's altered prospects. "Na, na," said the Burgrave, and wagged his head jocosely. "Somebody would not be in such a hurry to run away if somebody knew what her old uncle had planned for her. Ha, my dear, that hasty marriage was never more to my liking than to yours; and now we have a new husband for you. Aye, and a place at court! Hey, little Sidonia! Such a fine husband, such a fine position!"
The girl raised her eyes and desperately scanned his empurpled countenance. Again the Burgrave archly shook his head, and laughter rumbled in his huge body.—Aye, aye, it was the way of women to feign coyness, but men knew what was good for them. One must humour them from time to time, but never yield.—She read something implacable in the stupidity of his eye. She thought of the old wild boars in the forest: as well might she try to appeal to one of those!
He clutched her hands in his hot grasp; a faintness came over her.
"Aunt Betty is packing," she cried wildly, inspired by woman's wit. "Don't you know? ... She is going back to Austria."
"What?" roared the Burgrave. He released her and cantered sidelong down the passage to Betty's room.
It was blow upon blow. Sidonia stood, trying to collect her scattered thoughts. Suddenly Eliza came upon her, tripping from the outer door upon gay sandalled foot. She flung her shawl from her head at sight of Sidonia, and her eyes danced under dishevelled curls.
"We are going to Vienna, mademoiselle," she announced breathlessly, "and no later than to-night. I have just ordered the post-chaise for madame. One cannot trust that Kurtz. It is a great secret. Will not mademoiselle come with us? One is so happy at Vienna! And mademoiselle will probably meet the young count quite easily there—or somebody else just as handsome," added Eliza. Her eyes rollicked.
Sidonia looked at the gleeful, unscrupulous, excited face and recoiled. Wine flowed as freely in the menials' hall, on fête nights, at the Palace of Bellevue as in the salons. And Eliza was one who would profit of the occasion. But now the Burgrave's voice rose from the inner room with sudden clangour. The maid, suddenly sobered, caught Sidonia's wrist.
"Ah,ciel," she cried, "what is passing within there? And we, who thought monsieur safe away, in attendance of the King! ... Why, mademoiselle, how white you are, and how you tremble!" Immoral she might be, like her mistress; but, unlike her, she was kind. "Ah, he was not there, then, to-night," she proceeded with rapid intuition. "Listen, Mademoiselle Sidonia, since he won't come, if I were you I should just go to him.... And quick, quick, before he signs. He can't turn you away ... even if he wanted it.Sapristi, but you are still his wife."
A fresh outburst of wrangling voices in Betty's rooms here drew her curiosity in another direction.
"I must go and be with poor madame," she exclaimed; the twinkle in her eye, over the delight of witnessing the marital scene, contrasted oddly with the pious devotion of her tone.
"Tu verras que cela va rater encore cette fois," she was telling herself philosophically, as she hurried away.
"If you want help," had said the soft-voiced old lady, "ask forla Grande Maréchale de la Cour." If ever a poor daughter of Eve wanted help, it was surely Sidonia, standing between the Scylla of nameless evil and the Charybdis of dire humiliation.
A refuge for the night, the loan of a small sum, to enable her to gain the Forest House—for Sidonia was still kept like a child and had no purse of her own—surely, it was small assistance that she required. She paused but to catch up a travelling cloak in her room; then, seeking the outer corridor again, bade the first valet on her way guide her to the apartment of Madame la Grande Maréchale. She would wait, she planned, for the great lady's return from festivity. There must be safety where such gentle old age presided; and good counsel; perchance even an escort, forthcoming on the morrow for her journey back to the Thuringian forest.
The Maréchale's apartments were on the ground floor, and Sidonia thought fortune favoured her when the porter informed her that "Her Excellency" herself had that instant entered. Still more at ease felt she when the pretty old lady received her with open arms and cooing words of welcome:
"Ma belle enfant, this is well! I had presentiments. I expected you. That great bear of a Chancellor, your uncle, and the little minx of a wife he has ... (linnet-head, wasp-temper, ferret-heart—I know the kind! One look at her,ma chère, it was enough): that was no place for you. Nay, you wanted a friend, and it is well you came to me, very well." She nodded; and the bird-of-paradise plume in her gauzy turban quivered over her white curls.
Sidonia had to struggle with rising tears; but they were tears of gratitude, of relief. Madame la Maréchale patted her on the shoulder, stooped to embrace her; there was about her a delicate atmosphere of Parma powder and amber-scented laces.
"It is good, my child," she murmured, "to have a friend at court—some one who knows the ways of it.Ma petite, you and I, we'll do great things together! Nay, but we will talk no more now. A little supper would not come amiss. Hey, what have you eaten to-day?"
She rang a silver bell, and a smartsoubretteappeared, who stared with bold, black eyes at the visitor.
"Bettine, my good girl," said the suave lady, "take ... mademoiselle into my chamber, and arrange me her coiffure before supper.—We must be beautiful," she added, turning pleasantly again to Sidonia, "for we may have a guest."
"This way, mademoiselle," said Bettine, briefly.
As she led Sidonia across the threshold of a violet-scented, violet-hued bower, the lady's dulcet tones called after her—
"And then, Bettine, return to me here. I have to speed thee with a little note."
"It is well, madame," answered the French girl. (There was no "fashion" in Westphalia without Gallic handmaids.)
Sidonia looked around, and then at the girl's hard face as she closed the door. It seemed to her as if a bog quivered under her feet where she had thought to find firm footing. Her ears had been first disagreeably struck by the word "mademoiselle," and the emphasis that the old lady had placed on it.Mademoiselle!—to her who had so clearly introduced herself as the wife of Count Kielmansegg. The reference to an expected visitor next filled her with inchoate suspicion, which the order concerning a note intensified. She now read an insolent meaning in Bettine's eyes as they appraised her.
"Whom does your mistress expect to supper?" she asked, with sharpness.
The girl shrugged her shoulders. "Madame la Maréchale's supper-parties are very amusing," she replied familiarly in her fluent but strangely accented German. "Little suppers—very amusing, very discreet. Mademoiselle will amuse herself to-night ... oh, she may be sure she will amuse herselfroyally!" She paused on the word with an odious smile, then pursued familiarly: "The great thing is that mademoiselle should be beautiful. Voyons, we must off with this cloak. Will mademoiselle sit down? Oh, how lovely is mademoiselle's figure! but her hair—mademoiselle forgives?—her hair done in despite of all sense!"
Sidonia had felt it before she had the certainty into what a trap she had walked. Now she knew; and with the clearness of her conviction, she also knew what she had to do. She sat down silently, as bidden; and, while the distasteful touch of the Maréchale's maid played in her hair, made a steady inventory of the room. There was no door but the one leading back into the boudoir; great windows were curtained away behind the dressing-table.
"Oh, how much better is mademoiselle like this!" cried Bettine, falling back to admire her work.
Sidonia gave her own reflection an anxious scrutiny. One word, one look, one sign of weakness, and her hastily formed plan might be frustrated.... Beyond that possibility was the horror upon which she could not look, ... upon which she would never look! For, at the worst, there was still a refuge. The fiddler's words—"The release of a clean, proud soul—that is joy!" came to her ever and again as upon a strain of his own music, and ever with fresh strength and comfort.
"Oh, how beautiful is mademoiselle!" cried Bettine again, this time with genuine enthusiasm. "Positively, it is flames she has in her glance, and no rouge could beat me the colour of those cheeks."
"Bettine...!" rose the Maréchale's silver voice from the next room; and Sidonia, flinging herself into her part with the instinct of the defenceless, smiled gaily on the girl as she bade her go.
"Mademoiselle will not forget 'tis I who has adorned her—when she is in power?" insinuated the Maréchale's maid.
"I shall not forget," said Sidonia between her teeth. She seized the handle of the door as it closed between them: fortunately the Maréchale liked discreet hinges, and Sidonia was able, noiselessly, to draw it the necessary fraction of an inch apart that she might listen. There was not a tremor in her hands; she held her breath lest a rustle of silk should betray her. The strong spirit rises to the great situation.
There was whispering within. The ear of the heiress of Wellenshausen had been trained in forest glades, full of the small sounds of lesser lives. She caught a word here, a word there.
"... The note ... in his Majesty's own hands.... Thou hast well understood, my girl?"
"Yes, Excellence."
Bettine's whisper carried far. But now the Maréchale made a softer communication, of which the listener could gather no import, but Bettine's answer again gave the dreadful clue. It was emitted with a laugh. "Oh, no; your Excellency is wrong—we are not so scared as all that, believe me!"
A dulcet titter joined the note of the servant's mirth.
"At any rate, the little bird is in the cage," said the Maréchale, as she laughed.
It was more than enough. Sidonia closed the door. She found a bolt which moved willingly under her fingers. Then a frenzy of haste came upon her. The cloak over her pale dress—the hood over Bettine's fine coiffure! And now the window! People who shut up a little bird in a cage should make sure that the bars are close enough to keep it safe; for the bird has wings, and its heart beats towards freedom, towards the mate, towards the nest! The Maréchale's apartments were on therez-de-chaussée; but had they been on the top-most floor, that window would yet have been the way of Sidonia's flight.
Oh, how deliriously the chill, pure air beat upon her face after that evil hothouse atmosphere! By the stillness and the fragrance, by the soft earth under her feet, she knew she had alighted into the palace garden. It was a murky night, and the rain was falling; the distant lights of the park gates glimmered fitfully.
Sidonia had no idea whither to turn; but the intention of her heart was undeviating as the flight of the homing bird. There was only one refuge for her, only one place for her—her husband's arms. Her road was clear: she was going to Steven, and, after that, nothing would ever matter again.
She set off running in the direction of the gateway lamps. In a minute her light ball-slippers were soaked with wet, clogged with mud; her narrow skirts clung against her silk stockings; now she brushed against low bushes, now nearly fell. She could run no more; she must grope her way.
But presently her eyes became more accustomed to the dimness. A double row of marble statues, mounting ghostly guard on each side of the great alley, showed white through the trees. She knew her bearings now. Yonder fantastic group of lights in front was the Orangerie, illumined in honour of the royal fête. Fortunately for her, the skies to-night were not such as to tempt guests to al fresco rambling. Further, to the left, twinkled the lamps of the town, reflected through the branches in the waters of the Kleine-Fulda, which ran parallel to the Avenue, as she knew.
From the Friedrichsthor—the great gate of the palace grounds—came distant sounds of voices, laughter and calls. Through that issue she dared hardly venture. Even as she stood, hesitating, the rumble of an approaching carriage grew out of the night. She turned and fled in the opposite direction—there must be minor exits from the park, surely, and, so long as she was within the precincts of the palace, terror would dog her steps.
Her feet once on the firm sand of the alley, she girded up her impeding skirts. The dim stone figures on each side seemed, to her excited fancy, to move their heads and bend over to stare in wonder, to bid her haste away, wise in old knowledge of the guilty secrets of such a court. Somehow, these silent figures were company to her and she missed their presence when she plunged into the first turning which, she trusted, would lead towards the town. Yet, the darkness of the trees closing about her brought a new sense of protection. She was not of those who feel the night-horror of the woods; the trees were her friends from childhood; they knew her and she them. The softness and damp smell of the autumn leaves beneath her tread were grateful to her senses. The sound of the Kleine-Fulda on her stony bed guided her way to a narrow Chinese bridge over the ribbon of water. Soon she had to advance more slowly once again and feel her way: here the ground began to ascend, the trees to give place to shrubs; the path doubled and twisted suddenly. A blank wall sprang at her out of the gloom. She drew a quick breath. An illumined window-pane blinked:—it was the hoped-for gate of her escape, could she now but elude the sentry's challenge or carry herself with such assurance as to be allowed a passage.
But in Jerome's kingdom it was the unexpected that usually happened. By the gate stood, indeed, the inevitable sentry-box; but as, with her heart beating in her throat, Sidonia approached tiptoe with endless precautions, behold, it was empty! The gate itself was open. From within the guardian's lodge, behind that blinking window, came a merry burst of song and laughter. Clearly it was "like master like man." If Jerome thought that the enjoyment of the hour was the most urgent business of existence, so did his servants, including his park sentries. There was no doubt of the wholeheartedness of the entertainment in the side lodge of the royal garden that night.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE HOMING BIRD
"Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee...."(The Taming of the Shrew).
"Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee...."(The Taming of the Shrew).
"Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,
Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee...."
(The Taming of the Shrew).
(The Taming of the Shrew).
The street into which she stepped was ill-lighted, and contained but a few poor houses facing the park walls. It seemed to lead downwards to the open country and upwards to the heart of the town.
Lifting her torn and draggled skirts as neatly as she could, and pulling the folds of her hood and cloak more closely about her, she started with decision on the upward way. Here she must go sedately, though the hammering of her own pulses seemed like the footsteps of pursuers and a mad impulse, ever and anon, seized her to run. The gloom of the park had been infinitely less terrible than the town with its staring belated wayfarers, its circles of light under the hanging oil lamps, its nauseous strips of darkness where the miserable houses seemed to touch each other above her head, and where gutters mingled in noisomeness down the middle of the street. She looked back on the solitude, with its clean pine breath, as a haven of shelter. But she tramped unfalteringly the maze of dirty streets, only pausing twice to inquire the way.
The first time she was kindly answered by the poor faded woman she had stopped.... The Hôtel de l'Aigle Impérial was in the Koenig's Platz. To reach it one must take to the left, then to the right, till one crossed the Friedrich's Platz; then, keeping along the Obere Koenig's Gasse, one would find herself by the Hotel.... The woman wrapped her thin shawl closer about her shoulders, smiled vaguely in response to Sidonia's thanks and sped on—God knows to what miserable home. Trying to follow her instructions, Sidonia, chilled, fatigued and bewildered, soon began to doubt again, and requested the help of the next reputable-looking being of her sex on her path. This was a stout, red-faced dame, followed by a serving wench with a lantern; some excellent business woman on the way to fetch her man from the beerhouse, doubtless. She measured Sidonia from head to foot, caught the gleam of the muddied satin of her skirts, of the pearls at her throat, and suddenly, instead of replying to the meek question, began to rate her in round dialect for a trollop and a strumpet: "Du, mein Jott, and she so young, too!"
Most of the epithets were meaningless to Sidonia; but voice and eye were not. And when the virtuous dame proceeded to threats of night-watch and lock-up, the girl fairly took to her heels and ran blindly.
When labouring heart and panting lungs forced a halt upon her, she found herself in the very region of her seeking. By the wide space around her, the better lighting, the statue dominating in the centre of the tree-planted square, this could be no other than the Friedrich's Platz. But even as she paused to draw a quieter breath, before proceeding again, a new alarm was upon her.
Reeling as they advanced, linked together arm in arm, roaring out a chorus, the real tune of which was a matter of conjecture, three fantastic figures turned into the square from a side street, and suddenly confronted her. Students they were proclaimed in every long lock of hair, every extravagant item of attire; in the high boots and the spurs, the scarves, the clanking rapiers.
The Platz, with its staid burgherlike respectability, was filled with tipsy clamour. Judging by the colours profusely displayed and the bellowed words of the chorus, a bellicose patriotism was the night's inspiration. But, not content with wine-jug and harmony, the singers were not proof against lighter relaxation, as became evident upon their catching sight of the girl under the shadow of the trees.
"A prize, a prize!" shouted he who seemed to be the leader of the three, a red-headed Hercules. He took a lurching run in front of his companions, seized Sidonia playfully by the shoulders, and pulled her under the light of the nearest lamp.
The furious gesture with which she flung him off revealed again the ill-timed splendour of her attire. For a moment the three students stood staring open-mouthed. Then he who seemed the soberest of the party—he had a sleek impertinent face and an air of jocose solemnity—broke into cackling laughter:
"Positively, a bird from the tyrant's aviary," he cried. "A foreign, French bird! By all the laws of civilized warfare, a prize of the captor! ... Matam!" he pursued; in a vile French, bowed extravagantly, seized Sidonia's hand and tucked it against his side. "Matam, fly to the guardianship of the Law."
[image]"Positively, a bird from the tyrant's aviary,"he cried."A foreign, French bird! By all the laws of civilized warfare, a prize of the captor!"
[image]
[image]
"Positively, a bird from the tyrant's aviary,"he cried."A foreign, French bird! By all the laws of civilized warfare, a prize of the captor!"
"Nay, take refuge within the bosom of the Church," interrupted the third, intoning the words: "Raise your glances heavenwards!" He shot out a black arm and lifted her chin with two dank fingers reeking of canaster.
Sidonia, who had been paralyzed with fright and the sense of her own helplessness, here once more struck herself free—this time with a wild cry for the watch. Her cry was answered by shouts and cat-calls; and now, with a mighty clatter of spurred boots, a fresh detachment ofStudiosijoined the advance party. As in a nightmare, Sidonia found herself the centre of a struggling drunken laughing babel, which presently resolved itself into a circle that wheeled, stamping and jingling in time to a ribald chorus.
One of the dancers suddenly broke the ring; a flaring bearded face was thrust forward.
"A kiss, matamazell, and long live Westphalia!"
At this last insult the terror of the girl gave place to overpowering anger. She struck the coarse face so valiant a blow with her open palm, that, already none too steadily balanced, the red-haired giant staggered and would have fallen but for an officious comrade. A howl of laughter rose from the rest of the gang.
But as Sidonia, tossing back her hood, broke into vigorous German, silence succeeded to clamour. The sight of that head, so extraordinarily young, so golden in the lamp-shine, struck the group with overwhelming surprise. And upon surprise came shame, as the meaning of the words that fell indignantly from Sidonia's lips, pierced to the fuddled brains. Wild, dissipated boys they were, but not vicious at the core of their German hearts.
Here was a girl, a lady—more, a country-woman of their own; and, in their own tongue, she was telling them what she thought of them. She had always been so proud of being a German, and now she was ashamed, ashamed to think that Germans could so behave to a woman! Students, too, "nobles of learning," patriots, they called themselves, and to offer such a spectacle to theWelsch! She had fled from the palace down there because she had thought it not the right place for a good German woman: now she knew she would have been safer among the French....
Here a groan escaped a youth less tipsy or more susceptible than the rest, the quickest at any rate to catch the galling significance of this reproach. It was echoed here and there from the listening circle, by sounds of remorse and dismay. The ring melted apart; one or two caps were lifted, there was a shuffling of feet, as the most abashed slunk away. She stood, a flaming spot on each cheek, head held high, still flashing scorn and fury upon the remainder, when, with the perpetual irony of fate, the help that would have been so valuable to her a few minutes ago, and now unneeded, arrived upon the scene.
A burly watchman, bearing a lantern in one hand, and in the other a halbert with which he struck the pavement at rhythmic intervals, came striding upon them.
"Come, sirs, come, sirs, this is no manner of behaviour! No scandal in the streets, I beg. Honest folk should be in bed this hour! Disperse, disperse,meine Herren! And as for theMädelthere——"
He flung the light upon Sidonia's face and stopped, he also astounded. But she had caught in his words the music of a well-beloved and familiar accent.
"Ach, Gott, Freund!" she cried, in his own speech, flinging out both hands towards him, "do you come from my Thuringia? Then I am safe! By these Westphalians to-night, I, an unprotected woman, have been cruelly insulted."
Thuringian wits are not specially quick; but Thuringian hearts are sound, as Sidonia knew, and the appeal of the home language went straight to the watchman's. He flung himself before the girl, and turned threateningly upon her molesters, raising his halbert in a fashion which in any other circumstances would have been fiercely resented by students as against their academic privileges.
But to-night the situation was hardly one that admitted of academic haughtiness. The over-cheerful band scattered like night birds, here and there a shamefaced youth lifting his ridiculous head-gear before vanishing.
Sidonia and her countryman were alone. Then he, a stout veteran, grey-whiskered, with a comfortable fatherly presence, turned a shrewd, kind, yet grave scrutiny upon her:
"Na, child!" he exclaimed; "and what, in the name of God, brings you in the streets at this hour?"
She told him the bare truth, down to her name: how she had left the palace to seek the protection of her husband, who was at an inn in the town.
The old man nodded two or three times comprehendingly. He knew the Chancellor, as small people know the great; knew Wellenshausen, as who did not know the noble name on the marches of Thuringia; knew that a Thuringian lady was wise to leave that place yonder—with a jerk of his lantern. But why came she apart from her husband at all—how had he left her there?
"It was against his will; but I was angry with him," said Sidonia, ingenuously. She looked up at the old face, like a child, and tears welled into her eyes.
The good man gave a chuckle. A great lady was the daughter of Wellenshausen, the greatest lady in his own country; but to him, in very truth, to-night only a foolish child under his guardianship. He shook his head at her and began to chide in homely fashion.
Aye, aye, it was very wrong for a woman to disobey her husband. All good German women were submissive to their lords. Now she saw what dangers surrounded rebellious wives! She was right to go back to him. She must be humble and ask forgiveness. Aye, aye, he would guide her to the hotel door. Certainly! Was it likely indeed that he would leave her till he had seen her safe within?
He shifted his lantern into the hand that held the halbert, and gladly Sidonia felt his rough fingers close on her wrist. She went beside him, weak now and shaken, and listened in meekness to his homily. By-and-by, finding her in such good disposition, he endeavoured to beguile the way with more general topics. The Thuringian dialect became broader and broader as he foretold the clean-out of honest Germany from theWelschintruders; the downfall of the monkey tyrant, and the approaching good days when true-minded folk would come by their own again in Westphalia. Eh, it would not be long, he added mysteriously. Na, he knew what he knew. It was a good thing she was out of the French palace, for more reasons than one—aye, aye.
Sidonia could have cried for joy when, emerging upon the little round Koenig's Platz, she saw the gilt eagle, illumined by a red lamp, shine out in sanguinary grandeur from the front of the old German house. On the doorstep she once again offered both her hands to the watchman; he shook them cordially.
"Thank you, thank you!" she said. "Oh, I wish I had something to give you to remember me by! ... I have not any money." She made a hesitating gesture towards a ring on her finger. He interrupted her:
"Let that alone, child—I shall not forget you. Good night ... and be good!"
He knocked for her; stood firmly planted on the pavement, watching her entrance and smiling into his whiskers.
* * * * *
"I am the Countess Kielmansegg," said Sidonia to the sleepy porter. "Show me to the count's room."
Her tone was imperious. The man stared sullenly a moment, then swallowed a yawn; he had but just been roused from a comfortable nap to take up the night work, and the only perception awake in him was an acute sense of injury. Without a word, he turned and led the way up the square, dark stairs to the second floor. Before Steven's door his slouch came to a halt; he lifted a hand to knock, but she arrested him.
"Is that the room? You may go," she said.
She waited till his heavy foot had tramped the whole downward way, then, with a sudden overwhelming feeling that if she hesitated now her courage would after all fail her, she turned the handle of the door and went quickly in.
The room was deserted. As she realized this, Sidonia's heart seemed to empty itself of the hopes, the yearnings, even the terror, which had so filled it these last hours. All became a blank, a void. Never for a moment had she contemplated the possibility of Steven's absence. She closed the door and sank dully on the first chair. Presently the sense of shelter, the warmth about her, the serenity of the silence and solitude, began to soothe her into comfort. She lifted her head and looked around. The room was lighted by an oil lamp on the table; fire was lapping in the china stove; sundry chattels of Steven's were scattered about; his valise gaped, still open, in a corner. No fear, then, but that he would return to-night.
The vague fragrance of the lavender scent he liked brought his presence suddenly and vividly to her. The little bride melted into tears. She was worn out; her aching feet stung her as she held them against the warm porcelain of the stove. Her whole being seemed melted, her spirit broken; but there was a balm sweeter than triumph in this hour of her woman's surrender. All Betty's words, her gibes and threats, even what had seemed to be actual proofs of Steven's deceit, passed from her mind, as if washed away by these healing tears. There are moments when the soul can see beyond facts.
Presently, in the general relaxation of mind and body, the exhaustion consequent on the fatigues and emotions of the day overcame her. She sank into vague brief sleeps, to awake, her heart beating in her throat with reminiscences of past alarms. Thus she started at length from a vivid dream that the Burgrave, Betty, d'Albignac and Jerome had tracked her and were carrying her back to the palace. She came to full consciousness of solitude, but could not still the wild fear at her heart.... Betty's cunning was as a sleuth-hound's—Betty would well know where to trace her.... Sidonia had given her name to the porter. It would be bootless to lock the door, for one thrust of the Burgrave's shoulder would dispose of sounder defences. They would be dragging her away; Steven would return and never know! ... She rose, shaking in every limb, and looked desperately round.
Then a thought sprang into her brain, quaint and childish, yet to her an inspiration of angels. The great old German bed in the alcove was hung with curtains; she would creep into its shelter and draw the yellow damask folds close around her. There would she be safe as a bird in her nest in the leaves—in a room within a room. And, hidden, she could listen for her husband's step.
CHAPTER XXX
DAWN MUSIC
"Wir fuhren allein im dunkelnPostwagen die ganze nacht;Wir ruhten einander am Herzen,Wir haben gescherzt und gelacht...Doch als es morgen tagte,Mein kind, wie staunten wir!Denn zwischen uns sass Amor,Der blinde Passagier...."HEINE.
"Wir fuhren allein im dunkelnPostwagen die ganze nacht;Wir ruhten einander am Herzen,Wir haben gescherzt und gelacht...Doch als es morgen tagte,Mein kind, wie staunten wir!Denn zwischen uns sass Amor,Der blinde Passagier...."HEINE.
"Wir fuhren allein im dunkeln
Postwagen die ganze nacht;
Wir ruhten einander am Herzen,
Wir haben gescherzt und gelacht...
Doch als es morgen tagte,
Mein kind, wie staunten wir!
Denn zwischen uns sass Amor,
Der blinde Passagier...."
HEINE.
HEINE.
The previous day, after his interview with Sidonia, Steven had spent most of his time searching for the fiddler. At first he had hunted for him, on the impulse of his anger, more for the mere relief of upbraiding him and of railing to some one upon the perversity of his bride, than for the sake of counsel. But later, as temper gave place to more serious thought, and the young man's better nature asserted itself, he longed for his friend that he might discuss with him the means of meeting this most untoward trick of fate, of safeguarding the headstrong child they both loved from the danger of her surroundings.
It was chiefly the old quarters of the town that saw his disconsolate roaming. There was not a homely wine-garden, not a poor beer-house, where he did not stop and inquire. Had he been in the mood to notice such things, he might have been struck by the strange atmosphere of ferment brooding everywhere, especially in the purlieus beyond the river. There was a buzz about Cassel, like the hum of the swarming hive; as yet inarticulate, but ominous of wrath. It was perhaps, however, this very unconsciousness that preserved him from some danger on his vain quest. Once or twice he was followed; in most places he was looked at askance. One truculent host met his question with another: what did he want of Geiger-Hans? But the simplicity of the answer disarmed suspicion:
"He is my friend; I want his help."
The master of "The Great Tun" became immediately pleasant and conversational.—No, Geiger-Hans had not been about here for many weeks, more was the pity; he was wanted.
Disheartened and tired out, at last Steven returned to his hotel; but not to rest. He indited a letter to the Burgrave, demanding his wife in the name of the law of every country, and ending up with a scarcely veiled threat as to his power of making himself unpleasant to the Lord of Wellenshausen. Then, after having devoted some special attention to his attire, he again sought the palace gates. When he had left his letter with the porter, together with a gratuity so noble that it could not fail to buy the promptitude of delivery he desired, he demanded audience of one of the chamberlains.
On receipt of the fine coroneted card, the distinguished traveller was courteously entertained by Jerome's official, who volunteered to send him a formal invitation to the court concert on the morrow. Steven accepted with alacrity, and the urbane chamberlain further promised personally to introduce Count Waldorff-Kielmansegg to his royal master on the occasion. They parted with civilities on both sides, and Steven, feeling that the way was unexpectedly smoothed before him, passed the evening in more cheerful mood. Some instinct, rather than any set reason, had kept him from mentioning his connection with the Lord of Wellenshausen.
The next day he had the trivial, yet by no means easy, task to accomplish of procuring fitting garments for a court function. A misgiving at the non-appearance of the promised invitation began to press upon him as the day waned; and though he rated himself for being as nervous as a woman, and found a thousand good reasons to explain away the omission, it was with a boding heart that he set out, full early, for the palace. The Burgrave had treated his letter with contemptuous silence. Was it possible that there was a connection here with the non-fulfilment of the chamberlain's offered civility? If so, Steven had mightily blundered.
The uninvited guest had planned to march boldly into the palace without further ado. But, somewhat to his surprise, and much to his discomfiture, there was an unusual and severe watch at Jerome's doors to-night. He was checked, questioned, his card was demanded of him, and on the representation that he had been verbally invited by the chamberlain, he was sent from pillar to post, and finally landed in a small ante-room, at the door of which a couple of lackeys presently stationed themselves as if to keep watch upon him. With burning indignation and an inexpressible sense of helplessness, he heard the music strike up far away; heard the gay passage of luckier guests without; in the intervals, the whispers and muffled laughter of the servants.
After prolonged delay, a majestic individual, with a gilt chain round his neck, entered and informedM. le Comtethat his excellency the chamberlain deeply regretted his error of the previous day, but that the lists had already been closed. It had been deemed that, not receiving the card,M. le Comtewould have fully understood.
Steven rose to his feet, turned a white face and blazing eyes on the official; the amazing slight to himself, conveyed by the flimsy and improbable excuse, sank into insignificance before the sense of the trickery that must have prompted it.
"Fetch me ink and paper," he demanded; "the matter does not end here."
With that suavity which, opposed to passion, becomes impertinence, the old man bowed and disappeared. Shortly afterwards the same porter whom Steven had interviewed the day before sidled into the room, bearing the required writing materials. As he bent across the young man, he whispered in friendly tones, one eye warily upon the watchers at the door:
"The gracious one would do well to be gone at his best speed. Should he give more trouble he may be arrested; odd orders are given at the palace to-night, please his graciousness."
It did not need long reflection to show Steven the wisdom of taking the hint. He had a sudden maddening vision of himself imprisoned, helpless, and Sidonia unprotected here. No one attempted to stop him; he passed out, unmolested, into the wet night. Long and restlessly he roamed the park, and then the streets, revolving endless and impossible plans of action. No plan, no solution, reached, he at last took his moody way back to the Friedrich's Platz.
Perhaps Geiger-Hans might have been inspired of their need! Perhaps, faint hope, he might find him waiting at the Aigle Imperial.
A very different personality sat in expectation of his return, feeding patience with cognac in the public room. It was General d'Albignac, the King's Master of the Horse.
At sight of Steven this worthy sprang to his feet and saluted with a great air of cordiality, running over the Austrian's name and title, and announcing his own in French, all glib affability.
"We have met before, sir," sternly said Steven, who was in fine humour for destruction.
"I think not," answered the equerry. His eyes had a red glitter which denied his smile. "I think not,M. le Comte. Nay, I am positive it is the first time I have had the pleasure of addressing you."
Steven shrugged his shoulders.
"Have it so," he said contemptuously, and glanced at the cheek against which his hand had once exulted. "After all, it is you who had the more striking cause to remember.—What do you want with me?" he added, with British bluntness.
D'Albignac's smile was stiff over his white teeth; his fingers twitched upon the bundle of papers he had pulled out of his sabretasche. But the Master of the Horse had no illusions as to the length of Jerome's power; and, on the other hand, that document, once properly endorsed, meant his own future prosperity. It was worth a minute's urbanity towards one whom otherwise it would have been relief to hew down.
"I have business with you—business of delicacy, sir; I trust, easily despatched. A short private conversation between us." He cast a meaning look at the French officers playing piquet and tric-trac in their proximity.
"I can conceive no business," said Steven, "between us, sir, but one. Nevertheless, come to my room. I can promise you that my answer will be of quick despatch."
So he walked up the ill-lit stairs, with d'Albignac clanking at his heels, and pushed his way into his bed chamber before him—the creature should not be treated otherwise than as the dog he was.
"Shut the door," said he, "and say your say."
Again d'Albignac successfully fought his own fury.
"A matter of delicacy, as I said, my dear sir....Mademoiselle de Wellenshausenis, you are aware, now at the palace?"
"Are you speaking of Countess Waldorff-Kielmansegg?" put in Steven, threatening.
"Immaterial, now!" deprecated the other. "The marriage, I understand, is regretted on both sides. Your signature here, and we see to the rest."
Steven listened with outward calmness.
"We?" echoed he. "What have you to say to this, Colonel d'Albignac?"
It is not always by weight of hand or stroke of sword that man can have his sweetest vengeance upon man. D'Albignac, as he replied, knew that he was at last paying off scores:
"The King," he said—"my King, His Majesty Jerome, takes an interest in the lady."
Jerome...! This then explained all, explained the non-appearance of the card, the hostile reception at the palace. Sidonia, the child who had lain in his arms, and Jerome! Steven felt suddenly as if the clasps of his cloak were strangling him. He tore them apart, falling back two or three steps, that he might fling the burden on the bed. After that first flaming revelation there came to him a deadly calmness. He did not in the least know what he was about to do; it was quite possible that he might have to execute justice upon Jerome's dog before reaching Jerome himself; in any case, he must have his limbs free. The grating voice went on:
"It is my sovereign's desire that the young heiress of Wellenshausen should espouse a member of his own household. And his Majesty's choice has fallen upon your servant here. I may say the charming creature herself is not unwilling."
In that dangerous white mood of passion which can simulate highest composure, Steven heard without wincing.—Mechanically he gathered his cloak into a bundle and laid his hand on the curtain of his bed.—Then he stood silent, as if stricken, staring through the narrow opening of the damask folds, his back turned to his enemy.
D'Albignac rubbed his hands and chuckled. Was not all this better than the most sounding return slap in the face? Better even than feeling the easy steel run through flesh, grate against bone?
"And when my royal master," he pursued, "has a notion in his head,mille tonnerres, he is no more to be kept back than his Imperial brother from victory. Oh, he is of an impetuosity;d'une fougue, d'une verve!... more eager even than myself, the lucky bridegroom, to have these papers executed. 'If you wait till to-morrow, d'Albignac, my friend,' he said to me, 'the count may be gone, and that may mean delay.... Intolerable!' Hence,M. le Comte, my unceremonious visit, and at this undue hour—already excused, no doubt! Your signature, please, here. I can be witness. One stroke of the pen, and you make three people happy ... not to speak of yourself!"
The cloak glided from Count Kielmansegg's arm on to the floor. He closed the curtains delicately and faced his visitor.
"If you will leave the deed, General," said he, "I will peruse it to-night, and you can have it back in the morning."
He took the paper with marked courtesy from d'Albignac's hand. His face was paler than before, but there was a singular smile upon it, a singular light in the eyes. The youth's composure completely deceived and imposed upon d'Albignac, who, indeed, was none of the subtle-witted.
"An annulment is easier to secure than a divorce, and makes less of a scandal, does it not?" he said, with an insufferable air of intelligence.
"I am quite of your opinion," answered Steven.
"Sacrebleu, and the girl is the greatest heiress in Westphalia! What a morgue these Austrians have! ... The merest hint, it is enough with them!" thought the General as he drew a noisy breath of laughter and relief. "Enchanted," he went on aloud, "enchanted, my young friend, to find you so reasonable. I see you take me—— Ah, yes; these are sad times; and the soldier of fortune (such as I am) cannot afford to be squeamish. Hey! the King sups with Countess Kielmansegg.... Nay, shall we not say ...Mademoiselle de Wellenshausen?... to-night, at this very moment!"
Steven's smile flashed broadly a second. "He would grin on the rack," thought d'Albignac.
"A demain, General," said Steven, "but not before noon, please."
His tone was quiet, even soft. He advanced without hurry towards his visitor, tapped him lightly on the shoulder and pointed to the door.
The two stood looking, eye into eye; and the fighting brute rose again clamouring in d'Albignac's huge body. But something inscrutable in Steven's glance, its fire, almost its gaiety, made him quail. He felt that here he was more than matched, and broke ground with a clumsy bow—failure for irony. His great boots resounded down the wooden stairs.