Jena or Sedan? Part 59

Wolf heard the hoofs behind him and glanced round hastily. The rider was between himself and the sentry. Only a few more steps and he would be in the forest and under cover, if the horse did not reach him before that. At a stroke the despairing wish for a martyr's death had vanished. He no longer wished to die; he wanted to live and be free.

Freedom was awaiting him, there in the forest towards which his hurrying feet were carrying him. How would they ever be able to find him in that thick labyrinth of young pine-trees? He would break through the undergrowth at the forest's edge and take a lateral direction; then he would lie crouching on the ground and let the bullets whistle over his head.

From behind him sounded the second "Halt!" The sentry's voice rang more sharply and insistently.

Yes, shout as you like! He was only a few paces from the forest's edge; a little ditch separated it from the parade-ground, but it was only about a yard wide and easy to leap.

Wolfs plan was made.

He knew that the forest extended to the outskirts of the town. The first houses of the suburb were built among the trees. Workmen dwelt there--iron-founders and metal-workers--members of his party. They or some compa.s.sionate woman would certainly give the fugitive some cast-off clothes, and then he thought he could make for the frontier.

From behind came the third warning "Halt!"

The mounted orderly had apparently perceived the hopelessness of his efforts, and had reined in his horse; the sound of hoofs was no more to be heard. Now for the ditch!

He sprang. He thought he could smell already the powerful odour of the fir-trees. There, a little to the left, was an opening in the thicket; he could slip in there and be safe.

Then, midway in his leap, a bullet struck him in the nape of the neck.

He stumbled forward with his face buried in the haven of the undergrowth, his eyes gazing forwards towards the land of freedom.

Some weeks later the head physician of the military hospital in the capital gave a lecture, with ill.u.s.trations, before the Medical Society, "Upon an interesting case of the effects of small bore ammunition."

CHAPTER XVI

[Ill.u.s.tration: (Trumpet-call at tattoo.)]

Senior-Lieutenant Reimers sought an interview with his colonel, and frankly confided his trouble to him. In a sad, hopeless voice he told the whole story, concealing nothing.

There was, in fact, nothing to hide. The thoughtless behaviour which had had such serious consequences was in itself one of those offences which society looks upon as venial. But he reproached himself chiefly with the breach of faith towards Marie Falkenhein, to whom he considered himself to have been virtually betrothed, in allowing himself to be carried away by the impulse of a moment's folly.

When Reimers had finished the colonel sat for a long time silent. He leant his cheek on his hand and looked gloomily before him. During this confidential interview his daughter had not been alluded to in a single syllable, but in every word that the young officer spoke sounded an echo of painful regret for a much-desired happiness now lost to him. Of a sudden those fair prospects that the colonel had thought based on such a solid foundation had fallen to the ground. It was a bitter grief to him to see the pleasant vision destroyed, and he knew that a heavy sorrow was in store for his child.

At last he broke the silence.

"My poor boy," he said, "I wish I knew what I could say to comfort you, for I do not want to reproach you. You have enough to bear already in payment for a moment of thoughtlessness. You have gambled away one of your best chances of earthly happiness. Nevertheless, be brave; set your teeth and do not let your feelings overcome you. You have a proud and honourable calling, and have a real vocation for it. Let that be your consolation." His voice broke off short, trembling with inward emotion.

Reimers murmured in some confusion: "I am very much obliged to you, sir." And the two men sat for awhile opposite each other in silence.

"After this," the colonel continued with some hesitation and difficulty, "you will probably wish to get away for a change. I therefore advise you to go up for the winter examination at the Staff College. There is no doubt about your getting through. The work will prevent you from brooding over your thoughts, and afterwards there will be Berlin and entire change of surroundings. All that will be helpful to you."

Falkenhein's voice became softer, and shielding his eyes with his hand, he continued in a scarcely audible whisper: "It would be advisable that you should withdraw a little from society; and of course to any unavoidable questions it will be necessary to invent an answer of some sort. It seems to me it will be best to say that your old lung-trouble obliges you to take certain precautions. Is that agreed?"

With a sob the senior-lieutenant stammered out, "You have always been like a father to me, sir."

He had stood up and was about to depart without another word. Then suddenly the colonel took him in his arms. This seasoned, clear-headed man had great difficulty in restraining his emotion.

"I have long looked on you as a son, Reimers," he said. "And that all this has turned out so differently from my expectations is a grief to me, a very great grief. I cannot tell you how great."

Reimers took his departure. The colonel looked after him till the portiere fell.

Whose fault was it that the young man left the room with hanging head and miserable face, instead of with the beaming eyes of an accepted lover? Whose fault was it that the happiness of two young people had thus been shattered to pieces?

The colonel sat down before his writing-table and let his clenched fist fall in helpless anger upon the desk. He had not even the satisfaction of being able to direct his wrath against anybody or anything. The fault lay in something uncalled-for and apparently unavoidable, an evil, and at the same time necessary, outcome of the existing order of things.

Then he began to reflect. How should he break the bad news to Mariechen? By many little scarcely noticeable signs he had become convinced that she loved the unfortunate young officer. There was a delicate understanding, an unspoken engagement, between the two. How should he explain to her Reimers' sudden withdrawal?

This talk about the examination at the Staff College, and Reimers'

necessary care of his health, was not sufficient to break off an honourable attachment. He must rather think of some means for effecting a permanent, even if painful, cure, and put an end once for all to his daughter's dream of love.

The colonel made out a regular plan of campaign. Among his relations there had been a cousin, Otto von Krewesmuhlen, the owner of a large property in Franconia. The poor wretch had pa.s.sed more of his lifetime in Meran and Cannes than on his own estate; but he had married in spite of that for the sake of the entail, and unfortunately had married an acquaintance in the Riviera who also was not on the sh.o.r.es of the Mediterranean solely for pleasure. Two boys had been born to them, but Otto von Krewesmuhlen had not long survived their birth. The eldest child had followed the father not only in the entail but also in the manner of his death, and the widow and the second son were only like two feeble flames which the wind of life permits out of charity still to flicker for a while.

This cousin must serve to point the moral for his poor Mariechen, and help her to forget her young love in as painless a manner as possible.

It happened fortunately that Marie kept up a correspondence with her Franconian relations.

"I had something to ask you, Mariechen," began Falkenhein at supper.

"Oh yes, of course; have you had any more news from your Aunt Krewesmuhlen?"

"No, father," answered the girl, "not since the last letter, which you remember."

"I do not recollect quite well. Where was she then?"

"At Cannes, I think. Or it might have been San Remo."

"They have gone back again then?"

"Yes, unfortunately. And my aunt wrote in perfect despair."

The desired point had been reached; but his carefully-thought-out plan now seemed to the colonel inexpressibly clumsy and cruel. Nevertheless, he could not let the opportunity go by.

"I am really very much grieved," he said. His voice sounded to himself hollow and flat, like an ill-tuned instrument. But he went on speaking painfully and with difficulty, whilst his fingers kept clutching his collar. "As a matter of fact, Otto von Krewesmuhlen committed a crime in marrying at all. He is responsible for an enormous amount of trouble and sorrow. He would have done a better and a n.o.bler thing if he had renounced the idea of happiness in marriage. We cannot but ask ourselves: Was not this marriage simply a source of misery?"

He stopped. Marie looked at him thoughtfully.

Everything was very still in the lofty dining room. The colonel felt as if his words must re-echo like a trumpet-call from the walls, and he lowered his voice almost to a whisper.

"Of course it requires strength and self-control to give everything up when one is in love. But an honourable man should have both; he is equally to be pitied and respected. And imagine, Mariechen, dear Mariechen--one of our best friends--Senior-lieutenant Reimers--that's how it is with him--just as with poor Otto Krewesmuhlen; but he--will renounce his happiness. He is a brave man."

Falkenhein breathed more freely. Thank G.o.d! the mischief was out.

He looked anxiously across at Marie. Her face had become as white as the table-cloth. He was afraid she might faint. But no, the child pulled herself together; the trembling hand laid down the fork, which rattled gently against the plate and fell on the table.

The colonel went round the table softly to his daughter and stroked her fair golden hair with a gentle hand. Marie's shoulders began to heave, and suddenly she threw herself on his breast, weeping bitterly. The colonel was not quite sure what was the best way to meet this outburst.

He did not like to touch too pointedly upon the cause of his child's grief. Then he fell back on a method with which he had quieted Marie in days of old, before she had ever gone to school.