Chapter 51
"Then I will put it in another form. Have you the face to make yourself the equal of those wretched, foolish creatures who give themselves to a man, whether without marriage or in marriage--for marriage does not mend matters--for any other price than that of love, for which they give their own in exchange? Herr von Werben has nothing to give you in exchange; Herr von Werben does not love you."
Ferdinanda laughed scornfully. "And he has come to you, of whom he knew that you pursue him and his kind with blind hatred, to tell you that?"
"He has not come; his father was forced to take the hard step for him, for which he himself had not the courage, for which the father had to force the son's consent."
"That is----"
"Not a lie! On my oath. And further, he did not even go to his father of his own free will; he would not have done so to-day, he would perhaps never have done it, if his father had not sent for him to ask him if it were true what the sparrows said on the housetops, and what insolent wretches wrote in anonymous letters to the unsuspecting fathers, that Lieutenant von Werben had a love affair on the other side of the garden-wall, or--what do I know!"
"Show me the letters!"
"Here is one; the General will doubtless willingly let you have the other. I doubt whether his son will lay claim to it."
Ferdinanda read the letter.
She had taken it for granted that only Antonio could have been the traitor; but this letter was not from Antonio, could not be from Antonio. So that other eyes than the love-inspired, jealous eyes of Antonio had seen through her secret. Her pale cheek glowed in angry shame. "Who wrote the letter?"
"Roller; in the letter to the General, he has not disguised his hand."
She gave the letter hastily back to her father and struck her hands together, as if she wished to remove all trace of its touch: "Oh, the shame, the shame!" she murmured; "oh, the disgrace! the horror of it!"
The dismissed overseer had been at first received in the family, till Ferdinanda saw that he had dared to raise his eyes to her; she had taken advantage of a dispute he had had with her father first to loosen and then to put an end altogether to his relations with the family. And the insolent, evil eyes of this man--"Oh, the shame! oh, the disgrace!"
she murmured again.
She paced rapidly up and down, then hastened to the writing-table, which stood at the far end of the long room, wrote a few hurried lines, and then came back with the note to her father, who had remained motionless on the same spot: "Read it!"
And he read:
"My father is ready to sacrifice his convictions for my sake and consents to my marriage with Lieutenant von Werben. I, however, for reasons which my pride refuses to write down, reject this marriage now and for ever as a moral impossibility, and release Lieutenant von Werben from any obligation which he has, or thinks he has, towards me.
This determination, which I have made of my own free will, is irrevocable; any attempt on the part of Lieutenant von Werben to overthrow it, I shall regard as an insult.
"Ferdinanda Schmidt."
"Is that right?"
He nodded. "Am I to send him this!"
"In my name."
She turned from him, and, with a modelling-tool in her hand, went up to her work. Her father folded the letter and went towards the door. There he remained standing. She did not look up, but appeared quite absorbed in her work. His eyes rested on her with an
"And yet!" murmured he, "and yet!"
He closed the door behind him and walked slowly across the yard, through whose wide, empty s.p.a.ce the storm was raging.
"Deserted and empty!" he murmured, "all deserted and empty. That is the burden of the song for her and me."
"Uncle!"
He started from his gloomy musings. Reinhold came hurriedly from the house towards him--bareheaded and excited.
"Uncle, for heaven's sake!--the General has just left me. I know all--what have you decided?"
"What must be."
"It will be the death of Ferdinanda."
"Better death than a life of dishonour."
He stepped past Reinhold into the house. Reinhold did not venture to follow him; he knew that it would be useless.
BOOK IV.
CHAPTER I.
In a magnificent _salon_ of the Hotel Royal--a few days later--the Baroness Valerie von Warnow was pacing restlessly backwards and forwards. She had, by Giraldi's advice, sent this morning to the General's house to announce her arrival the evening before, adding that she was unfortunately too much fatigued to present herself in person, but hoped in the course of a few days, if not the next day, to make up for her delay.
"You must not expose yourself to the affront of being refused admittance," Giraldi had said: "I have every ground for suspecting that he has laid himself out more than ever for his favourite part of the knight with the helmet of Mambrinus; but virtuous fools are as little to be depended upon as other fools; possibly the unhoped-for happiness of seeing his _mauvais sujet_ of a son at last betrothed may have softened him, and it will please him to act a part of magnanimity and forgiveness. We shall hear how he takes your message, and we can take our measures and make our arrangements accordingly."
Valerie knew too well that her brother acted no part, that he always was what he seemed; and that if he ever forgave her, it would not be in consequence of a momentary impulse, but from the conviction that she could live no longer without his forgiveness, and that she deserved it if the deepest remorse, the most ardent wish to atone, as far as was possible for the past, ent.i.tled her to it. But that day would never come; to-day, as ever, he would reject with cold politeness her attempt at a reconciliation, would answer her through Sidonie that he regretted to hear of her indisposition and hoped it would soon pa.s.s off, so that she might as speedily as possible be able to resume her journey to Warnow, which he trusted might be a prosperous one.
And only five minutes ago the answer had come; not in Sidonie's stiff, formal hand, but in a small, graceful writing, the very sight of which did Valerie good, even before, with eyes fixed and expectant, which at last filled with tears, she read:
"Dear Aunt,--We are so glad that you are here at last! Papa, who sends you his best love, has another meeting to attend this morning--the War Office is like a beehive just now--but we, that is Aunt Sidonie and I, will call upon you at twelve o'clock, if convenient to you, to ask you how you are, and I especially to make acquaintance at last with a dear relation, whom I have never seen, and whom I have often longed to see.
"Elsa.
"P.S. Ottomar had gone out when your note came: I will leave word for him, and will send also to the Wallbachs, in case, as is probable, he has gone there, in which case he will probably call upon you with Carla and the Wallbachs."
"Dear, good child!" sobbed Valerie; "I have to thank you for his yielding, I am sure! I can see it in your dear, loving words!"
She kissed the letter again and again. "Oh, if you knew how thankful I am to you, if I could tell you so on my knees as before G.o.d. Be my good angel. You do not know how much I need a good angel, with his pure, strong hand to save me from this fearful slavery. But you will not be able to save me if you would. What could you do against him? Your innocence, your goodness, your wisdom--even your courage, and you must be both wise and courageous to have braved and coaxed this from that obstinate, unapproachable man--he would throw it all into the dust, and tread it under his cruel feet, as he has thrown and trampled me in the dust."
She wandered thus through the s.p.a.cious room, now throwing herself into an arm-chair because her limbs threatened to fail her, and the next moment springing up and hurrying to the window to look at a carriage which had just stopped before the hotel; then again stepping before one of the large mirrors, and eagerly and anxiously examining her countenance; it must not betray her excitement when he came in--a quiver of the mouth, an unwonted degree of colour or of pallor in her cheeks, a brighter glance, a fainter light in her eyes--he saw and remarked everything, he had the key of her soul. How gladly would she have received the dear writer alone, how gladly would she at least have concealed the letter from him. But she dared not do even that; now less than ever, when her lips must say yes, while her heart cried no; when her lips must smile while h.e.l.l raged in her bosom; when she must and would practise the lesson that had been taught her.
She rang the bell and desired the servant who waited in the anteroom, which connected her rooms and Giraldi's, to beg the Signor to come to her for a minute. She gave the order in the most careless tone. The man, a young Frenchman, whom Giraldi had engaged in Rome, had only been a few weeks in her service; but he had no doubt been at least as long in Giraldi's pay as his predecessors.
Hardly a minute had elapsed when she heard his step in the anteroom; he was today, as ever, ready to fulfil her slightest wish. She pa.s.sed her hand once more hastily over her brow and eyes, and tried whether her voice sounded natural. "Dear friend, I have----" Francois opened the door to him at that moment. "Dear friend, I have already received an answer from my niece, so extremely kind that it can only be a trap."