“They do not live there now, dear, Friedhelm and your father,” said I, gently.
“Not? Then where are they?”
“I do not know,” I was forced to say. “They were fighting in the war. I think they live at Berlin now, but I am not at all sure.”
This uncertainty seemed to cause him much distress, and he would have added more, but our conversation was brought to an end by the entrance of Brunken, who looked rather surprised to see us in such close and earnest consultation.
“Will you show me the way back to the countess’s room?” said I to Sigmund.
He put his hand in mine, and led me through many of those interminable halls and passages until we came to the rittersaal again.
“Sigmund,” said I, “are you not proud to belong to these?” and I pointed to the dim portraits hanging around.
“Yes,” said he, doubtfully. “Uncle Bruno is always telling me that I must do nothing to disgrace their name, because I shall one day rule their lands; but,” he added, with more animation, “do you not see all these likenesses? These are all counts of Rothenfels, who have been heads of the family. You see the last one is here – Graf Bruno – my uncle. But in another room there are a great many more portraits, ladies and children and young men, and a man is painting a likeness of me, which is going to be hung up there; but my father is not there. What does it mean?”
I was silent. I knew his portrait must have been removed because he was considered to be living in dishonor – a stain to the house, who was perhaps the most chivalrous of the whole race; but this I could not tell Sigmund. It was beginning already, the trial, the “test” of which he had spoken to me, and it was harder in reality than in anticipation.
“I don’t want to be stuck up there where he has no place,” Sigmund went on, sullenly. “And I should like to cut the hateful picture to pieces when it comes.”
With this he ushered me into Gräfin Hildegarde’s boudoir again. She was still there, and a tall, stately, stern-looking man of some fifty years was with her.
His appearance gave me a strange shock. He was Eugen, older and without any of his artist brightness; Eugen’s grace turned into pride and stony hauteur. He looked as if he could be savage upon occasion; a nature born to power and nurtured in it. Ruggedly upright, but narrow. I learned him by heart afterward, and found that every act of his was the direct, unsoftened outcome of his nature.
This was Graf Bruno; this was the proud, intensely feeling man who had never forgiven the stain which he supposed his brother had brought upon their house; this was he who had proposed such hard, bald, pitiless terms concerning the parting of father and son – who forbade the child to speak of the loved one.
“Ha!” said he, “you have found Sigmund, mein Fräulein? Where did you meet, then?”
His keen eyes swept me from head to foot. In that, at least, Eugen resembled him; my lover’s glance was as hawk-like as this, and as impenetrable.
“In the music-room,” said Sigmund; and the uncle’s glance left me and fell upon the boy.
I soon read that story. The child was at once the light of his eyes and the bitterness of his life. As for Countess Hildegarde, she gazed at her nephew with all a mother’s soul in her pathetic eyes, and was silent.
“Come here,” said the Graf, seating himself and drawing the boy to him. “What hast thou been doing?”
There was no fear in the child’s demeanor – he was too thoroughly a child of their own race to know fear – but there was no love, no lighting up of the features, no glad meeting of the eyes.
“I was with Nahrath till Aunt Hildegarde sent for him, and then I went to practice.”
“Practice what? Thy riding or fencing?”
“No; my violin.”
“Bah! What an extraordinary thing it is that this lad has no taste for anything but fiddling,” observed the uncle, half aside.
Gräfin Hildegarde looked sharply and apprehensively up.
Sigmund shrunk a little away from his uncle, not timidly, but with some distaste. Words were upon his lips; his eyes flashed, his lips parted; then he checked himself, and was silent.
“Nun denn!” said the count. “What hast thou? Out with it!”
“Nothing that it would please you to hear, uncle; therefore I will not say it,” was the composed retort.
The grim-looking man laughed a grim little laugh, as if satisfied with the audacity of the boy, and his grizzled mustache swept the soft cheek.
“I ride no further this morning; but this afternoon I shall go to Mulhausen. Wilt thou come with me?”
“Yes, uncle.”
Neither willing nor unwilling was the tone, and the answer appeared to dissatisfy the other, who said:
“‘Yes, uncle’ – what does that mean? Dost thou not wish to go?”
“Oh, yes! I would as soon go as stay at home.”
“But the distance, Bruno,” here interposed the countess, in a low tone. “I am sure it is too far. He is not too strong.”
“Distance? Pooh! Hildegarde, I wonder at you; considering what stock you come of, you should be superior to such nonsense! Wert thou thinking of the distance, Sigmund?”
“Distance – no,” said he, indifferently.
“Come with me,” said the elder. “I want to show thee something.”
They went out of the room together. Yes, it was self-evident; the man idolized the child. Strange mixture of sternness and softness! The supposed sin of the father was never to be pardoned; but natural affection was to have its way, and be lavished upon the son; and the son could not return it, because the influence of the banished scapegrace was too strong – he had won it all for himself, as scapegraces have the habit of doing.
Again I was left alone with the countess, sitting upright over her embroidery. A dull life this great lady led. She cared nothing for the world’s gayeties, and she had neither chick nor child to be ambitious for. Her husband was polite enough to her; but she knew perfectly well, and accepted it as a matter of course, that the death of her who had lived with him and been his companion for twenty-five years would have weighed less by half with him than any catastrophe to that mournful, unenthusiastic child, who had not been two years under their roof, and who displayed no delight in the wealth of love lavished upon him.
She knew that she also adored the child, but that his affection was hard to get. She dared not show her love openly, or in the presence of her husband, who seemed to look upon the boy as his exclusive property, and was as jealous as a tiger of the few faint testimonies of affection manifested by his darling. A dull journey to Berlin once a year, an occasional visitor, the society of her director and that of her husband – who showed how much at home with her he felt by going to sleep whenever he was more than a quarter of an hour in her presence – a little interest of a lofty, distant kind in her townspeople of the poorer sort, an occasional call upon or from some distant neighbor of a rank approaching her own; for the rest, embroidery in the newest patterns and most elegant style, some few books, chiefly religious and polemical works – and what can be drearier than Roman Catholic polemics, unless, indeed, Protestant ones eclipse them? – a large house, vast estates, servants who never raised their voices beyond a certain tone; the envy of all the middle-class women, the fear and reverential courtesies of the poorer ones – a cheerful existence, and one which accounted for some of the wrinkles which so plentifully decked her brow.
“That is our nephew,” said she; “my husband’s heir.”
“I have often seen him before,” said I; “but I should have thought that his father would be your husband’s next heir.”
Never shall I forget the look she darted upon me – the awful glance which swept over me scathingly, ere she said, in icy tones:
“What do you mean? Have you seen – or do you know – Graf Eugen?”
There was a pause, as if the name had not passed her lips for so long that now she had difficulty in uttering it.
“I knew him as Eugen Courvoisier,” said I; but the other name was a revelation to me, and told me that he was also “to the manner born.” “I saw him two days ago, and I conversed with him,” I added.
She was silent for a moment, and surveyed me with a haggard look. I met her glance fully, openly.
“Do you wish to know anything about him?” I asked.
“Certainly not,” said she, striving to speak frigidly; but there was a piteous tremble in her low tones. “The man has dis – What am I saying? It is sufficient to say that he is not on terms with his family.”
“So he told me,” said I, struggling on my own part to keep back the burning words within me.
The countess looked at me – looked again. I saw now that this was one of the great sorrows of her sorrowful life. She felt that to be consistent she ought to wave aside the subject with calm contempt; but it made her heart bleed. I pitied her; I felt an odd kind of affection for her already. The promise I had given to Eugen lay hard and heavy upon me.
“What did he tell you?” she asked, at last; and I paused ere I answered, trying to think what I could make of this opportunity. “Do you know the facts of the case?” she added.
“No; he said he would write.”
“Would write!” she echoed, suspending her work, and fixing me with her eyes. “Would write – to whom?”
“To me.”
“You correspond with him?” There was a tremulous eagerness in her manner.
“I have never corresponded with him yet,” said I, “but I have known him long, and loved him almost from the first. The other day I promised – to – marry him.”
“You?” said she; “you are going to marry Eugen! Are you” – her eyes said – “are you good enough for him?” but she came to an abrupt conclusion. “Tell me,” said she; “where did you meet him, and how?”
I told her in what capacity I had become acquainted with him, and she listened breathlessly. Every moment I felt the prohibition to speak heavier, for I saw that the Countess von Rothenfels would have been only too delighted to hail any idea, any suggestion, which should allow her to indulge the love that, though so strong, she rigidly repressed. I dare say I told my story in a halting kind of way; it was difficult for me on the spur of the moment to know clearly what to say and what to leave unsaid. As I told the countess about Eugen’s and my voyage down the river, a sort of smile tried to struggle out upon her lips; it was evidently as good as a romance to her. I finished, saying:
“That is the truth, gnädige Frau. All I fear is that I am not good enough for him – shall not satisfy him.”
“My child,” said she, and paused. “My dear child,” she took both my hands, and her lips quivered, “you do not know how I feel for you. I can feel for you because I fear that with you it will be as it was with me. Do you know any of the circumstances under which Eugen von Rothenfels left his friends?”
“I do not know them circumstantially. I know he was accused of something, and – and – did not – I mean – ”
“Could not deny it,” she said. “I dare not take the responsibility of leaving you in ignorance. I must tell you all, and may Our Lady give me eloquence!”
“I should like to hear the story, madame, but I do not think any eloquence will change my mind.”
“He always had a manner calculated to deceive and charm,” said she; “always. Well, my husband is his half-brother. I was their cousin. They are the sons of different mothers, and my husband is many years older than Eugen – eighteen years older. He, my husband, was thirty years old when he succeeded to the name and estates of his father – Eugen, you see, was just twelve years old, a school-boy. We were just married. It is a very long time ago —ach ja! a very long time ago! We played the part of parents to that boy. We were childless, and as time went on, we lavished upon him all the love which we should have bestowed upon our own children had we been happy enough to have any. I do not think any one was ever better loved than he. It so happened that his own inheritance was not a large one; that made no difference. My husband, with my fullest consent and approbation, had every intention of providing for him: we had enough and to spare: money and land and house room for half a dozen families, and our two selves alone to enjoy it all. He always seemed fond of us. I suppose it was his facile manner, which could take the appearance of an interest and affection which he did not feel – ”
“No, Frau Gräfin! no, indeed!”
“Wait till you have heard all, my poor child. Everyone loved him. How proud I was of him. Sometimes I think it is a chastisement, but had you been in my place you would have been proud too; so gallant, so handsome, such grace, and such a charm. He was the joy of my life,” she said in a passionate under-tone. “He went by the name of a worthy descendant of all essential things: honor and loyalty and bravery, and so on. They used to call him Prinz Eugen, der edle Ritter, after the old song. He was wild and impatient of control, but who is not? I hate your young men whose veins run milk, not blood. He was one of a fiery passionate line. At the universities he was extravagant; we heard all sorts of follies.”
“Did you ever hear of anything base – anything underhand or dishonorable?”
“Never – oh, never. High play. He was very intimate with a set of young Englishmen, and the play was dreadful, it is true; he betted too. That is a curse. Play and horses, and general recklessness and extravagance, but no wine and no women. I never heard that he had the least affinity for either of these dissipations. There were debts – I suppose all young men in his position make debts,” said the countess, placidly. “My husband made debts at college, and I am sure my brothers did. Then he left college and lived at home awhile, and that was the happiest time of my life. But it is over.
“Then he entered the army – of course. His family interest procured him promotion. He was captain in a fine Uhlan regiment. He was with his regiment at Berlin and Munich, and – . And always we heard the same tales – play, and wild, fast living. Music always had a hold upon him.
“In the midst of his extravagance he was sometimes so simple. I remember we were dreadfully frightened at a rumor that he had got entangled with Fräulein – , a singer of great beauty at the Hofoper at – . I got my husband to let me write about it. I soon had an answer from Eugen. How he laughed at me! He had paid a lot of debts for the girl, which had been pressing heavily upon her since her career began; now he said he trusted she would get along swimmingly; he was going to her benefit that night.
“But when he was at – , and when he was about six-and-twenty, he really did get engaged to be married. He wrote and told us about it. That was the first bitter blow: she was an Italian girl of respectable but by no means noble family – he was always a dreadful radical in such matters. She was a governess in the house of one of his friends in – .
“We did everything we could think of to divert him from it. It was useless. He married her, but he did not become less extravagant. She did not help him to become steady, I must say. She liked gayety and admiration, and he liked her to be worshiped. He indulged her frightfully. He played – he would play so dreadfully.
“We had his wife over to see us, and he came with her. We were agreeably surprised. She quite won our hearts. She was very beautiful and very charming – had rather a pretty voice, though nothing much. We forgave all his misconduct, and my husband talked to him and implored him to amend. He said he would. Mere promises! It was so easy to him to make promises.
“That poor young wife! Instead of pitying him for having made a mésalliance, we know now that it was she who was to be pitied for having fallen into the hands of such a black-hearted, false man.”
The lady paused. The recital evidently cost her some pain and some emotion. She went on:
“She was expecting her confinement. They returned to – , where we also had a house, and we went with them. Vittoria shortly afterward gave birth to a son. That was in our house. My husband would have it so. That son was to reconcile all and make everything straight. At that time Eugen must have been in some anxiety: he had been betting heavily on the English Derby. We did not know that, nor why he had gone to England. At last it came out that he was simply ruined. My husband was dreadfully cut up. I was very unhappy – so unhappy that I was ill and confined to my room.
“My husband left town for a few days to come over to Rothenfels on business. Eugen was scarcely ever in the house. I thought it was our reproachful faces that he did not wish to see. Then my husband came back. He was more cheerful. He had been thinking things over, he said. He kissed me, and told me to cheer up: he had a plan for Eugen, which, he believed, would set all right again.
“In that very moment some one had asked to see him. It was a clerk from the bank with a check which they had cashed the day before. Had my husband signed it? I saw him look at it for a moment. Then he sent the man away, saying that he was then busy and would communicate with him. Then he showed me the check. It was payable to the bearer, and across the back was written ‘Vittoria von Rothenfels.’
“You must bear in mind that Eugen was living in his own house, in another quarter of the town. My husband sent the check to him, with a brief inquiry as to whether he knew anything about it. Then he went out: he had an appointment, and when he returned he found a letter from Eugen. It was not long: it was burned into my heart, and I have never forgotten a syllable of it. It was:
“‘I return the check. I am guilty. I relieve you of all further responsibility about me. It is evident that I am not fit for my position. I leave this place forever, taking the boy with me. Vittoria does not seem to care about having him. Will you look after her? Do not let her starve in punishment for my sin. For me – I leave you forever.
‘Eugen.’
“That was the letter. Ei! mein Gott! Oh, it is hideous, child, to find that those in whom you believed so intensely are bad – rotten to the core. I had loved Eugen, he had made a sunshine in my not very cheerful life. His coming was a joy to me, his going away a sorrow. It made everything so much blacker when the truth came out. Of course the matter was hushed up.
“My husband took immediate steps about it. Soon afterward we came here; Vittoria with us. Poor girl! Poor girl! She did nothing but weep and wring her hands, moan and lament and wonder why she had ever been born, and at last she died of decline – that is to say, they called it decline, but it was really a broken heart. That is the story – a black chronicle, is it not? You know about Sigmund’s coming here. My husband remembered that he was heir to our name, and we were in a measure responsible for him. Eugen had taken the name of a distant family connection on his mother’s side – she had French blood in her veins – Courvoisier. Now you know all, my child – he is not good. Do not trust him.”
I was silent. My heart burned; my tongue longed to utter ardent words, but I remembered his sad smile as he said, “You shrink from that,” and I braced myself to silence. The thing seemed to me altogether so pitiable – and yet – and yet, I had sworn. But how had he lived out these five terrible years?
By and by the luncheon bell rang. We all met once more. I felt every hour more like one in a dream or in some impossible old romance. That piece of outward death-like reserve, the countess, with the fire within which she was forever spending her energy in attempts to quench; that conglomeration of ice, pride, roughness and chivalry, the Herr Graf himself; the thin, wooden-looking priest, the director of the Gräfin; that lovely picture of grace and bloom, with the dash of melancholy, Sigmund; certainly it was the strangest company in which I had ever been present. The countess sent me home in the afternoon, reminding me that I was engaged to dine there with the others to-morrow. I managed to get a word aside with Sigmund – to kiss him and tell him I should come to see him again. Then I left them; interested, inthralled, fascinated with them and their life, and – more in love with Eugen than ever.