Meanwhile, Treurenberg is riding along the road to X----.
The landscape is dreary. Autumn is creeping over the fields, vainly seeking the summer, seeking luxuriant life to kill, or exquisite beauty to destroy. In vain; the same withering drought rests upon everything like a curse, and in the midst of the brown monotony bloom succory and field-poppies.
Treurenberg gazes to the right and left without really seeing anything. His eyes have a glassy, fixed look, and about his mouth there is a hard expression, almost wicked, and quite foreign to him. He is not the same man who an hour ago sought his wife to entreat her to begin a new life with him; not the same man who at dawn was so restless in devising schemes for a better future.
His restlessness has vanished with his last gleam of hope; sensation is benumbed, the burning pain has gone. Something has died within him. He no longer reflects upon his life,--it is ended; he has drawn a black line through it. All that he is conscious of is intense, paralyzing weariness, the same that had overcome him in the early morning, only more crushing. After the scene with his wife he had been assailed by a terrible languor, an almost irresistible desire to lie down and close his eyes, but he could not yield to it, he had something to do. That poor lad must be rescued; the suffering the boy was enduring was wholesome, but he must be saved.
Fainacky's assertion that Treurenberg was in the habit of borrowing from his friends had been a pure fabrication; he had borrowed money of no one save of Harry, with whom he had been upon the footing of a brother from early boyhood, and of Abraham Goldstein, upon whose secrecy he had supposed he could rely. It would have wounded him to speak to any stranger of the painful circumstances of his married life. Now all this was past; Selina could thank herself that it was so. He could not let the boy go to ruin, and, since Selina would not take pity upon him, he must turn to some one else; there was no help for it.
For a moment he thought of Harry; but he reflected that Harry could hardly have so large a sum of ready money by him, and, as time was an important item in the affair, there was nothing for it but to apply for aid to Wodin, the husband of his cousin and former flame.
The trees grow scantier, their foliage rustier, and the number of ragged children on the highway greater. Now and then some young women are to be seen walking along the road, usually in couples, rather oddly dressed, evidently after the plates in the journals of fashion, and with an air of affectation. Then come a couple of low houses with blackened roofs reaching almost to the ground, manure-heaps, grunting swine wallowing in slimy green pools, hedges where pieces of linen are drying, gnarled fruit-trees smothered in dust, an inn, a carters' tavern, with a red crab painted above the door-way, whence issues the noise of drunken quarrelling, then a white wall with some trees showing above it, the town-park of X----. Lato has reached his goal. On the square before the barracks he halts. A corporal takes charge of his horse, and he hurries up the broad, dirty steps, along the still dirtier and ill-smelling corridor, where he encounters dragoons in spurs and clattering sabres, where the officers' overworked servants are brushing their masters' coats and their mistresses' habits, to the colonel's quarters, quarters the luxurious arrangement of which is in striking contrast to the passages by which they are reached. Count Wodin is not at home, but is expected shortly; the Countess, through a servant, begs Lato to await him. He resolves to do so, and pays his respects meanwhile to his cousin, whom he finds in a spacious, rather low-ceilinged apartment, half smoking-room, half drawing-room, furnished with divans covered with Oriental stuff's, pretty buhl chairs and tables, and Japanese cabinets crowded to excess with all sorts of rare porcelain. An upright piano stands against the wall between two windows; above it hangs a miniature gondola, and beside it, on the floor, is a palm in a huge copper jar evidently procured from some Venetian water-carrier. Two china pugs, the size of life, looking like degenerate chimeras, gnash their teeth at all intruders in life-like hideousness. The door-ways are draped with Eastern rugs; the walls are covered with a dark paper, and two or three English engravings representing hunting-scenes hang upon them. In the midst of these studies in black and white hangs a small copy of Titian's Venus.
The entire arrangement of the room betrays a mingling of vulgarity and refinement, of artistic taste and utter lack of it; and in the midst of it all the Countess reclines on a lounge, dressed in a very long and very rumpled morning-gown, much trimmed with yellowish Valenciennes lace. Her hair is knotted up carelessly; she looks out of humour, and is busy rummaging among a quantity of photographs. She is alone, but from the adjoining room come the sound of voices, as Treurenberg enters, and the rattle of bézique-counters.
The Countess gives him her hand, presses his very cordially, and says, in a weary, drawling tone, "How are you after yesterday, Lato?"
"After what?"
"Why, our little orgie. It gave me a headache." She passes her hand across her forehead. "How badly the air tastes! Could you not open another window, Lato?"
"They are all open," he says, looking round the room.
"Ah! You have poisoned the atmosphere with your wine, your cigars, your gambling excitement. I taste the day after a debauch, in the air."
He nods absently.
"I admire people who never suffer the day after," she sighs, and waves her hand towards the door of the next room, through which comes a cheerful murmur of voices. Lato moves his head a little, and can see through the same door a curious couple,--the major's wife, stout, red-cheeked, her hair parted boldly on one side, and dressed in an old gown, enlarged at every seam, of the Countess's, while opposite her sits a young man in civilian's clothes, pale, coughing from time to time, his face long and far from handsome, but aristocratic in type, his chest narrow, and his waistcoat buttoned to the throat.
"Your brother," Lato remarks, turning to the Countess.
"Yes," she rejoins, "my brother, and my certificate of respectability, which is well, for there is need of it.À propos, do you know that in the matter of feminine companionship I am reduced to that stout Liese?" The Countess laughs unpleasantly. "I have tried every day to bring myself to the point of returning your wife's call. I do not know why I have not done so. But the ladies at Dobrotschau are really very amiable,--uncommonly amiable,--they have invited me to the betrothalfêtein spite of my incivility.À propos, Lato, will any one be there,--any one whom one knows?"
"I have had nothing to do with the list of guests," he murmurs, listening for Wodin's step outside.
"I should like to know. It would be unpleasant to meet any of my acquaintances,--they treat me so strangely. You know how it is." Again she laughs in the same unpleasant way. "But if I could be sure of meeting no one I would go to yourfête, I have a new gown from Worth: I should like to display it somewhere; dragging my trains through these smoky rooms becomes monotonous after a while. I think I will come."
The voices in the next room sound louder, and there is a burst of hearty laughter. Lato can see the major's wife slap her forehead in mock despair.
"Easily entertained," the Countess says, crossly. "They are playing bézique for raisins. It makes a change for my brother; his physician has sent him to the country for the benefit of the air and a regular mode of life. He has come to the right place, eh?" Again she laughs; her breath fails her; she closes her eyes and leans back, white as a corpse.
Lato shudders at the sight, he could hardly have told why. His youth rises up before him. There was a time when he loved that woman with enthusiasm, with self-devotion. That woman! He scans her now with a kind of curiosity. She is still beautiful, but the wan face has fallen away, the complexion all that can be seen of it beneath its coating of violet powder--is faded, the delicate nose is too thick at the tip, the nostrils are slightly reddened, the small mouth is constantly distorted in an affected smile, the arms from which the wide sleeves of the morning-gown have fallen back are thin, and the nails upon the long, slender hands remind one of claws. Even the white gown looks faded, crushed, as by the constant nervous movement of a restless, discontented wearer. Her entire personality is constrained, feverish.
Involuntarily Lato compares this woman with Olga. He sees with his mind's eye the young girl, tall and slender as a lily, her white gowns always so pure and fresh, sees the delicately-rounded oval of her girlish face, her clear, large eyes, the innocent tenderness of her smile. And Selina could malign that same Olga! His blood boils. As if Olga were to blame for the wretched, guilty passion in his breast! His thoughts are far away from his present surroundings.
"Seven thousand five hundred," the triumphant voice of the major's wife calls out in the next room. "If this goes on, Count Franz, I shall soon stop playing for raisins! Ah!" as, turning her head, she perceives Treurenberg; "you have a visitor, Lori."
"Yes," Countess Lori replies, "but do not disturb yourselves, nor us."
The rattle of the counters continues.
"I must speak with your husband," Lato says presently; "if you know where he is----"
"He will be here in ten minutes; you need have no fear, he is never late," Lori says. "À propos, do you know what I was doing when you came in? Sorting my old photographs." She hands him a picture from the pile beside her. "That is how I looked when you fell in love with me."
He gazes, not without interest, at the pale little picture, which represents a tall, slender, and yet well-developed young girl with delicate, exquisitely lovely features, and with eyes, full of gentle kindliness, looking out curiously, as it were, into the world from beneath their arched eyebrows. An old dream floats through the wretched man's mind.
"It was very like," he says.
"Was it not? I was a comical-looking thing then, and how badly dressed! Look at those big sleeves and the odd skirt. It was a gown of my elder sister's made over. Good heavens! that gown had a part in my resolve to throw you over. Do you remember?"
"Yes, Lori."
"Only faintly, I think," she laughs. "And yet you seemed to take it sadly to heart then. I was greatly agitated myself. But what else was to be done? I was tired of wearing my sister's old gowns. Youth longs for splendour; it is one of its diseases, and when it has it--pshaw! you need not look so, Lato: I have no intention of throwing myself at your head. I know that old tale is told for both of us. And we never were suited for each other. It was well that I did not marry you, but, good heavens, I might have waited for some one else! It need not have been just that one--that----" with a hasty gesture of disgust she tosses aside a photograph of Count Wodin which she has just drawn from the heap. "What would you have? If a tolerably presentable man appears, and one knows that he can buy one as many gowns, diamonds, and horses as one wants, why, one forgets everything else and accepts him. What ideas of marriage one has at seventeen! And our parents take good care not to enlighten us. 'She will get used to it,' say father and mother, and the mother believes it because she wants to, and both rejoice that their daughter is provided for; and before one is aware the trap has fallen. I bore you, Lato."
"No," he replies; "you grieve me."
"Oh, it is only now and then that I feel thus," she murmurs. "Shall I tell you the cause of my wretched mood?"
"Utter fatigue, the natural consequence of yesterday's pleasures."
"Not at all. I accidentally came upon the picture of my cousin Ada to-day. Do you remember her? There she is." She hands him a photograph. "Exquisitely beautiful, is it not?"
"Yes," he says, looking at the picture; "the eyes are bewitching, and there is such womanly tenderness, such delicate refinement, about the mouth."
"Nothing could surpass Ada," says Countess Lori; "she was a saint, good, self-sacrificing, not a trace in her of frivolity or selfishness."
"And yet she married Hugo Reinsfeld, if I am not mistaken?" says Lato. "I have heard nothing of her lately. News from your world rarely reaches me."
"No one mentions her now," Lori murmurs. "She married without love; not from vanity as I did, but she sacrificed herself for her family,--sisters unprovided for, father old, no money. She was far better than I, and for a long time she honestly tried to do her duty,----and so she finally had to leave her husband!"
The Countess stops; a long pause ensues. The steps of the passers-by sound through the languid September air; an Italian hurdy-gurdy is grinding out the lullaby from "Trovatore," sleepy and sentimental. The clatter from the barracks interrupts it now and then. A sunbeam slips through the window-shade into the half-light of the room and gleams upon the buhl furniture.
"Well, she had the courage of her opinions," the Countess begins afresh at last. "She left her husband and lives with--well, with another man,--good heavens! you knew him too, Niki Gladnjik, in Switzerland; they live there for each other in perfect seclusion. He adores her; the world--our world, the one I do not want to meet at your ball--ignores Ada, but I write to her sometimes, and she to me. I have been reading over her letters to-day. She seems to be very happy, enthusiastically happy, so happy that I envy her; but I am sorry for her, for--you see, Niki really loves her, and wants to marry her--they have been waiting two years for the divorce which her husband opposes; and Niki is consumptive; you understand, if he should die before----"
Lato's heart throbs fast at his cousin's tale. At this moment the door opens, and Count Wodin enters.
Flammingen's affairs are satisfactorily adjusted. Treurenberg is relieved of that anxiety. He can devote his thoughts to his own complications, as he rides back from X---- to Dobrotschau.
The dreamy lullaby from "Trovatore" still thrills his nerves, and again and again he recalls the pair living happily in Switzerland. He sees their valley in his mental vision enclosed amid lofty mountains,--walls erected by God Himself to protect that green Paradise from the intrusion and cruelty of mankind,--walls which shut out the world and reveal only the blue heavens. How happy one could be in that green seclusion, forgotten by the world! In fancy he breathes the fresh Alpine air laden with the wholesome scent of the pines; upon his ear there falls the rushing murmur of the mountain-stream. He sees a charming home on a mountain-slope, and at the door stands a lovely woman dressed in white, with large, tender eyes filled with divine sympathy. She is waiting for some one's return; whence does he come? From the nearest town, whither he is forced to go from time to time to adjust his affairs, but whither she never goes; oh, no! People pain her,--people who despise and envy her. But what matters it? He opens his arms to her, she flies to meet him; ah, what bliss, what rapture!
His horse stumbles slightly; he rouses with a start. A shudder thrills him, and, as in the morning, he is horrified at himself. Will it always be thus? Can he not relax his hold upon himself for one instant without having every thought rush in one direction, without being possessed by one intense longing? How can he thus desecrate Olga's image?
Meanwhile, the expected guests have arrived at Dobrotschau. They came an hour ago,--three carriage-loads of distinction from, Vienna, some of them decorated with feudal titles. A very aristocratic party will assemble at table in Dobrotschau to-day. Countess Weiseneck, a born Grinzing, wife of a rather disgracefulmauvais sujet, whose very expensive maintenance she contests paying, and from whom she has been separated for more than a year; Countess Mayenfeld,néeGerstel, the wife of a gentleman not quite five feet in height, who is known in Vienna by thesobriquetof "the numismatician." When his betrothal to the wealthy Amanda Gerstel was announced, society declared that he had chosen his bride to augment his collection of coins. His passion for collecting coins enables this knightly aristocrat to endure with philosophy the cold shoulders which his nearest relatives turned to him after his marriage; moreover, he lives upon excellent terms with his wizened little wife. One more couple with a brand-new but high-sounding title; then an unmarried countess, with short hair and a masculine passion for sport,--an acquaintance made at a watering-place; then Baron Kilary, the cleverest business-man among Vienna aristocrats, who is always ready to eat oysters andpâte de foie grasat any man's table, without, however, so far forgetting himself as to require his wife and daughter to visit any one of his entertainers who is socially his inferior. The famous poet, Paul Angelico Orchys, and little Baron Königsfeld, complete the list of arrivals.
The first greetings are over; ended also is the running to and fro of lady's-maids looking for mislaid handbags, with the explanations of servants, who, having carried the trunks to the wrong rooms, are trying to make good their mistakes. All is quiet. The ladies and gentlemen are seated at small tables in a shady part of the park, drinking tea and fighting off a host of wasps that have attacked the delicacies forming part of the afternoon repast.
The castle is empty; the sound of distant voices alone falls on Lato's ear as he returns from his expedition to X---- and goes to his room, desirous only of deferring as long as possible the playing of his part in this tiresome entertainment. The first thing to meet his eyes on his writing-table is a letter addressed to himself. He picks it up; the envelope is stamped with a coronet and Selina's monogram. He tears the letter open; it encloses nothing save a package of bank-notes,--eighteen hundred guilders in Austrian currency.
Lato's first emotion is anger. What good will the wretched money do him now? How rejoiced he is that he no longer needs it, that he can return it within the hour to Selina! The address arrests his attention; there is something odd about it. Is it Selina's handwriting? At first sight he had thought it was, but now, upon a closer inspection can it be his mother-in-law's hand? Is she trying to avoid a domestic scandal by atoning thus for her daughter's harshness? He tosses the money aside in disgust. Suddenly a peculiar fragrance affects him agreeably. What is it?--a faint odour of heliotrope. Could it be----? His downcast eyes discover a tiny bunch of faded purple blossoms lying on the floor almost at his feet. He stoops, picks it up, and kisses it passionately: it is the bunch of heliotrope which Olga wore on her breast at breakfast. It is she who has cared for him, who has thought of him!
But instantly, after the first access of delight, comes the reaction. How could Olga have known? Selina, in her irritation, may have proclaimed his request to the entire household; the servants may be discussing in the kitchen Count Treurenberg's application to his wife for eighteen hundred guilders, and her angry refusal to grant them to him. He clinches his fist and bites his lip, when on a sudden he recalls the rustle of a robe in the next room, which he thought he heard at one time during his interview with Selina. The blood mounts to his forehead. Olga had been in the library; she had heard him talking with his wife. And if she had heard him ask Selina for the money, she had also heard---- Ah! He buries his face in his hands.
The afternoon tea has been enjoyed; the ladies have withdrawn to their rooms to "arm themselves for the fray," as Paul Angelico expresses it; the gentlemen have betaken themselves to the billiard-room, where they are playing a game, as they smoke the excellent cigars which Baron Kilary has ordered a lackey to bring them.
Lato has wandered out into the park. He is not quite himself; the ground beneath his feet seems uncertain. He leans against the trunk of a tree, always pondering the same question, "What if she heard?"
He turns involuntarily into the garden-path where, but a short time since, he had soothed her agitation and dried her tears. There, on the rough birchen bench, something white gleams. Is it----?
He would fain flee, but he cannot; he stands as if rooted to the spot. She turns her face towards him, and recognizes him. A faint colour flushes her cheek, and in her eyes, which rest full upon him, there is a heavenly light.
"Lato!" she calls. Is that her voice sounding so full and soft? She rises and approaches him. He has never before seen her look so beautiful. Her slender figure is erect as a young fir; she carries her head like a youthful queen whose brow is crowned for the first time with the diadem. She stands beside him; her presence thrills him to his very soul.
"Olga," he murmurs at last, "was it you who left the money on my table? How did you know that I wanted it?" he asks, bluntly, almost authoritatively.
She is silent.
"Olga, Olga, were you in the library while----?"
She nods.
"And you heard all,--everything?"
"Yes."
"Olga!" His eyes are riveted upon her face in what is almost horror.
"Olga,--what now?"
"I cannot bear to see you suffer," she murmurs, scarce audibly.
Did he extend his arms to her? He could not himself tell; but what he has dreamed has happened,--he clasps her to his breast, his lips meet hers; his anguish is past; wings seem to be given him wherewith to soar to heaven.
But only for an instant is he thus beguiled; then reality in its full force bursts upon him. He unclasps the dear arms from his neck, presses one last kiss upon the girlish hand before he releases it, and then turns and walks away with a firm tread, without looking round, and in the full consciousness of the truth,--the consciousness that no wings are his, and that the heavy burden which has weighed him down is doubly heavy now.
Taken altogether, Fainacky may be but a very ordinary pattern of a man, but as amaître de plaisirin the arrangement of afêtehe is unrivalled. A more exquisite table than that around which the twenty people are assembled who form the rehearsing party for Harry's betrothal festival it would be difficult to imagine. The only criticism that can be made is that the guests are rather far apart; but who could have foreseen that at the last moment four people would be lacking? The Paul Leskjewitsches, with their niece, sent regrets, and Olga, just before dinner, was obliged to retire with a severe headache, to which she succumbed in spite of her aunt's exhortations to her "not to mind it." Lato is present; he is indifferent as to where his hours drag past. He is determined to prevent Olga's being made the subject of discussion, and his social training, with the numbness sure to ensue upon great mental agitation, stands him in stead; he plays his part faultlessly. Now and then the consciousness of his hopeless misery flashes upon him, then it fades again; he forgets all save the present moment, and he scans everything about him with keen observation, as if he had no part or parcel in it, but were looking at it all as at another world.
Yes, the table is charmingly decorated; anything more tasteful or more correct in every respect could not be imagined; but the people gathered about this sparkling board, never before has he seen them so clearly or judged them so severely.
His contempt is specially excited by his social equals. Fritz Mayenfeld, "the numismatician," does not long occupy his attention. In spite of his rank, he has always manifested thoroughly plebeian instincts; his greed of gain is notorious; and he looks, and is, entirely at home in the Harfink domestic atmosphere. The descent of the other aristocrats present, however,--of Kilary, of the short-haired Countess, and of the affected Count Fermor,--is tolerably evident in their faces, and they all seem determined to assert their aristocratic prestige in the same manner,--by impertinence.
Lato is conscious of a horror of his own caste as he studies these degenerate members of it. He turns his attention to the three guests from Komaritz,--the Countess Zriny, Hedwig, and Harry. The old canoness, who is seated on his right, provokes his smile. The superb condescension with which, for love of her nephew, she treats "these people;" the formal courtesy with which she erects an insurmountable barrier between them and herself; the morsels of liberalism which she scatters here and there in her conversation for their comfort and delectation,--all are worthy of the most enthusiastic praise.
Poor old woman! How important she is in her own eyes! Her gown is the ugliest and shabbiest there (the one the sporting Countess wears was given her by Selina), but six strings of wonderful pearls which she wears around her neck make her all right. Hedwig,--well, she is a little more affected than usual; she is flirting with little Baron Königsfeld, who took her in to dinner, playing him off against her neighbour on the other side, Count Fermor. And Harry,--with profound sympathy and intense compassion Lato's eyes rest upon his friend. Simple, without pretension or affectation, very courteous without condescension, a little formal, perhaps, withal,--as the most natural of men must be where he feels himself a stranger,--with that in his face and bearing that distinguishes him above every one present, he is the only specimen of his own caste there with whom Lato feels satisfied.
"They may abuse us as they please," he thinks to himself,--"nay, I even join them in abusing,--but if one of us gives his word he stands to it." And then he questions whether in any other rank could be found such an example of noble and manly beauty, or of such quixotic, self-annihilating, chivalrous honour. "Good heavens! why not?" he makes reply to himself. "So far as moral worth is concerned, assuredly; only in form it would probably be less refined."
Lato has had much experience of life. He has laid aside all the prejudices of his class, but the subtile caste-instinct still abides with him. He asks himself whether his family--the Harfink family--notice the difference between Harry and the other aristocrats present; whether the Harfinks will not be finally disgusted by the impertinence of these coxcombs; whether they do not feel the offensive condescension of the Countess Zriny. It would seem not. The Harfinks, mother and daughters, are quite satisfied with what is accorded them; they are overflowing with gratified vanity, and are enjoying the success of the festival. Even Selina is pleased; Olga's absence seems to have soothed her. She informs Lato, by all kinds of amiable devices,--hints which she lets fall in conversation, glances which she casts towards him,--that she is sorry for the scene of the morning, and is ready to acquiesce. She tells her neighbour at dinner, Baron Kilary, that to-day is the anniversary of her betrothal.
Lato becomes more and more strongly impressed by the conviction that her severe attack of jealousy has aroused within her something of her old sentiment for him. The thought disgusts him profoundly; he feels for her a positive aversion.
His attention is chiefly bestowed upon Harry. How the poor fellow suffers! writhing beneath the ostentatious anxiety of his betrothed, who exhausts herself in sympathetic inquiries as to his pallor, ascribing it to every cause save the true one.
"What will become of him if he does not succeed in ridding himself of this intolerable burden?" Lato asks himself. An inexpressible dread assails him. "A candidate for suicide," he thinks, and for a moment he feels dizzy and ill.
But why should Harry die, when his life might be adjusted by one word firmly uttered? He might be saved, and then what a sunny bright future would be his! If one could but help him!
The dinner is half over; punch is being served. The tall windows of the dining-hall are wide open, the breeze has died away for the time, the night is quiet, the outlook upon the park enchanting. Coloured lamps, shaped like fantastic flowers, illumine the shrubbery, whence comes soft music.
All the anguish which had been stilled for the moment stirs within Lato's breast at sound of the sweet insinuating tones. They arouse within him an insane thirst for happiness. If it were but possible to obtain a divorce! Caressingly, dreamily, the notes of "Southern Roses" float in from the park.
"Ah! how that reminds me of my betrothal!" says Selina, moving her fan to and fro in time with the music. Involuntarily Lato glances at her.
She wears a red gown,decoletéeas of old. Her shoulders have grown stouter, her features sharper, but she is hardly changed otherwise; many would pronounce her handsomer than she had been on that other sultry September evening when it had first occurred to him that he--loved her--no, when he lied to himself--because it seemed so easy.
He falls into a revery, from which he is aroused by the poet Angelico Orchys, who rises, glass in hand, and in fluent verse proposes the health of the betrothed couple. Glasses are clinked, and scarcely are all seated again when Fainacky toasts the married pair who are celebrating to-day the sixth anniversary of their betrothal. Every one rises; Selina holds her glass out to Lato with a languishing glance from her half-closed eyes as she smiles at him over the brim.
He shudders. And he has dared to hope for a divorce!
The clinking of glasses has ceased; again all are seated; a fresh course of viands is in progress; there is a pause in the conversation, while the music wails and sighs outside, Fainacky from his place at table making all sorts of mysterious signs to the leader.
Treurenberg's misery has become so intense within the last few minutes that he can scarcely endure it without some outward sign of it, when suddenly a thought occurs to him, a little, gloomy thought, that slowly increases like a thunder-cloud. His breath comes quick, the cold perspiration breaks out upon his forehead, his heart beats strong and fast.
"Is anything the matter, Lato?" Selina asks, across the table; "you have grown so pale. Do you feel the draught?"
He does not answer. His heart has ceased to beat wildly; a soothing calm, a sense of relief, takes possession of him; he seems to have discovered the solution of a huge, tormenting riddle.
Presently the wine begins to take effect, and conversation drowns the tones of the music. Culinary triumphs have been discussed, there has been some political talk, anti-Semitic opinions, in very bad taste, have been expressed, and now, in spite of the presence of several young girls, various scandals are alluded to.
"Have any of you heard the latest developments in the Reinsfeld-Gladnjik case?" Kilary asks.
Treurenberg listens.
The sporting Countess replies: "No: for two years I have seen nothing of Ada Reinsfeld--since the--well, since she left her husband; one really had to give her up. I am very lenient in such affairs, but one has no choice where the scandal is a matter of such publicity."
"I entirely agree with you, my dear Countess," says the Baroness Harfink. "So long as due respect is paid to external forms, the private weaknesses of my neighbours are no concern of mine; but external forms must be observed."
"My cousin's course throughout that business was that of a crazy woman," says "the numismatician," with his mouth full. "She was mistress of the best-ordered house in Gräz. Reinsfeld's cook was----! never in my life did I taste such salmi of partridges--except on this occasion," he adds, with an inclination towards his hostess. The next moment he motions to a servant to fill his glass, and forgets all about his cousin Ada.
"Poor Ada! She was very charming, but she became interested in all sorts of free-thinking books, and they turned her head," says the Countess Zriny. "In my opinion a woman who reads Strauss and Renan is lost."
"The remarks of the company are excessively interesting to me," Kilary now strikes in, with an impertinent intonation in his nasal voice, "but I beg to be allowed to speak, since what I have to tell is quite sensational. You know that Countess Ada has tried in vain to induce her noble husband to consent to a divorce. Meanwhile, Gladnjik's condition culminated in galloping consumption, and two days ago he died."
"And she?" several voices asked at once.
"She?--she took poison!"
For a moment there is a bush in the brilliantly-lighted room, the soft sighing of the music in the shrubbery is again audible. Through the open windows is wafted in the beguiling charm of an Hungarian dance by Brahms.
There is a change of sentiment in the assemblage: the harshness with which but now all had judged the Countess Ada gives place to compassionate sympathy.
Countess Zriny presses her lace-trimmed handkerchief to her eyes. "Poor Ada!" she murmurs; "I can see her now; a more charming young girl there never was. Why did they force her to marry that old Reinsfeld?"
"He had so excellent a cook," sneers Kilary, with a glance at "the numismatician," from whose armour of excellent appetite the dart falls harmless.
"Forced!" Paula interposes eagerly, in her deep, guttural tones. "As if nowaday's any one with a spark of character could be forced to marry!"
Harry twirls his moustache and looks down at his plate.
"I am the last to defend a departure from duty," the old canoness goes on, "but in this case the blame really falls partly upon Ada's family. They forced her to marry; they subjected her to moral force."
"That is true," even Kilary, heartless cynic as he is, admits. "They forced her, although they knew that she and Niki Gladnjik were attached to each other. Moreover, I must confess that, in spite of the admirable qualities which distinguish Reinsfeld,--as, for example, his excellent cook,--it must have been very difficult for a delicate-minded, refined young creature to live with the disgusting old satyr--my expressions are classically correct."
"Niki took her marriage sorely to heart," sighed the sporting Countess. "They say he ruined his health by the dissipation into which he plunged to find forgetfulness. In that direction Ada certainly was much to blame; she was carried away by compassion."
Meanwhile, Fainacky has made another sign for the music. The dreamy half-notes die away, and the loud tones of a popular march echo through the night.
All rise from table.
Treurenberg's brain spins, as with the Countess Zriny on his arm he walks into the garden-room, where the guests are to admire the decorations and to drink their coffee.
"The fair Olga is not seriously ill?" he hears Kilary say to Selina.
"Oh, not at all," Selina replies. "You need not fear anything infectious. Olga is rather overstrained and exaggerated; you cannot imagine what a burden papa left us in the care of her. But we have settled it to-day with mamma: she must leave the house,--at least for a time. My aunt Emilie is to take her to Italy. It will be a great relief to us all."
While some of the guests are contented merely to admire the decorations of the garden-room, others suggest improvements. They cannot quite agree us to where the musicians should be placed, and the band migrates from one spot to another, like a set of homeless fugitives; in one place the music is too loud, in another it is not loud enough. Hilary's nasal, arrogant voice is heard everywhere in command. At last the band is stationed just before the large western window of the room. Some one suggests trying a waltz. Kilary waltzes with Selina. Treurenberg watches the pair. They waltz in the closest embrace, her head almost resting on his shoulder.
Once Lato might have remonstrated with his wife upon such an exhibition of herself; but to-day, ah, how indifferent he is to it all! He turns away from the crowd and noise, and walks beyond the circle of light into the park. Here a hand is laid on his shoulder. He turns: Harry has followed him.
"What is the matter, old fellow?" he asks, good-humouredly. "I do not like your looks to-day."
"I cannot get Ada Reinsfeld out of my head," Treurenberg rejoins, in a low tone.
"Did you know her?" asks Harry.
"Yes; did you?"
"Yes, but not until after her marriage. I liked her extremely; in fact, I have rarely met a more charming woman. And she seemed to me serious-minded and thoroughly sincere. The story to-day affected me profoundly."
"Did you notice that not one of the women had a good word to say for the poor thing until they knew that she was dead?" Treurenberg asks, his voice sounding hard and stern.
"Yes, I noticed it," replies Harry, scanning his friend attentively.
"They may perhaps waste a wreath of immortelles upon her coffin," Treurenberg goes on, in the same hard tone, "but not one of them would have offered her a hand while she lived."
"Well, she did not lose much in the friendship of the women present to-day," Harry observes, dryly; "but, unfortunately, I am afraid that far nobler and more generous-minded women also withdrew their friendship from poor Ada; and, in fact, we cannot blame them. We cannot require our mothers and sisters to visit without remonstrance a woman who has run away from her husband and is living with another man."
"Run away; living with another man: how vulgar that sounds!" Treurenberg exclaims, angrily.
"Our language has no other words for this case."
"I do not comprehend you; you judge as harshly as the rest."
They have walked on and have reached a rustic seat quite in the shade, beyond the light even of the coloured lamps. Harry sits down; Lato follows his example.
"How am I to judge, then?" Harry asks.
"In my eyes Ada was a martyr," Treurenberg asserts.
"So she was in mine," Harry admits.
"I have the greatest admiration for her."
"And I only the deepest compassion," Harry declares, adding, in a lower tone, "I say not a word in blame of her; Niki was the guiltier of the two. A really noble woman, when she loves, forgets to consider the consequences of her conduct, especially when pity sanctifies her passion and atones in her eyes for her sin. She sees an ideal life before her, and does not doubt that she shall attain it. Ada believed that she should certainly procure her divorce, and that all would be well. She did not see the mire through which she should have to struggle to attain her end, and that even were it attained, no power on earth could wash out the stains incurred in attaining it. Niki should have spared her that; he knew life well enough to be perfectly aware of the significance of the step she took for him."
"Yes, you are right; women never know the world; they see about them only what is fair and sacred, a young girl particularly."
"Oh, in such matters a young girl is out of the question," Harry sharply interrupts.
There is an oppressive silence. Lato shivers.
"You are cold," Harry says, with marked gentleness; "come into the house."
"No, no; stay here!"
Through the silence come the strains of a waltz of Arditi's "La notte gia stendi suo manto stellato," and the faint rustle of the dancers' feet.
"How is your cousin?" Lato asks, after a while.
"I do not know. I have not spoken with her since she left Komaritz," Harry replies, evasively.
"And have you not seen her?" asks Lato.
"Yes, once; I looked over the garden-wall as I rode by. She looks pale and thin, poor child."
Lato is mute. Harry goes on:
"Do you remember, Lato? is it three or four weeks ago, the last time you were with me in Komaritz? I could jest then at my--embarrassments. I daily expected my release. Now----" he shrugs his shoulders.
"You were angry with me then; angry because I would not interfere," Lato says, with hesitation.
"Oh, it would have been useless," Harry mutters.
Instead of continuing the subject, Lato restlessly snaps a twig hanging above his head. "How terribly dry everything is!" he murmurs.
"Yes," says Harry; "so long as it was warm we looked for a storm; the cool weather has come without rain, and everything is dead."
"The spring will revive it all, and the blessing of the coming year will be doubled," Lato whispers, in a low, soft tone that rings through Harry's soul for years afterwards.
"Harry! Harry! where are you? Come, try one turn with me." It is Paula's powerful voice that calls thus. She is steering directly for the spot where the friends are seated.
"Give my love to Zdena, when you see her," Lato whispers in his friend's ear as he clasps Harry's hand warmly, and then vanishes among the dark shrubbery before the young fellow is aware of it.