Problematic Characters Part 68

"And suppose Helen should not forget herself so far--or suppose it should be only a child's caprice, to vanish with the next moment, are you so well pleased with her manner towards yourself?"

"She will change her manner when she finds I am in earnest."

"And if she does not change it?"

"Well, then, we are, heaven be thanked, not married yet," said Felix, lost in admiration of his boot, and hardly knowing what he was saying.

"Then we had better break off our conversation," said the baroness, rising; "if you can speak with such indifference of the failure of a plan which, I think, we both of us look upon with no small interest, it is hardly worth while to discuss it any further."

"But, my dearest aunt," said Felix, starting up and kissing the baroness' hand, "you are really in an awful humor today. How can you be so offended at a word, which did not mean anything at all, 'pon honor?

It just slipped out so. You know my tongue often says things for which I should by no means like to be held responsible. Sit down again, pray!

You were saying that Helen's manner towards me might not change. My solemn answer is: I shall many her nevertheless. Those things come all right when one sits in the carriage and is off for the wedding tour; at first tears, then sobs, then pouting, then a little smile, and----"

"Enough," said the baroness, "you are an incorrigible wag, who----"

"Succeeds wherever he wants to succeed. And therefore let your scruples go, and give us our coffee or it will be cold."

"Not quite so fast," said the baroness; "what would you advise now?"

"What I have always advised. Since I am not allowed to have anything to do with the matter myself, you had better tell Helen: You marry your cousin Baron Felix Grenwitz, and moreover within so and so many days!

That is settled! Selah!"

"Are you in earnest?"

"In full earnest! When are you going to give your great ball?"

"Day after to-morrow."

"Good! that is a capital opportunity to make our engagement public.

Just tell Helen: If you are not Felix's betrothed by Thursday evening, you march back to school on Friday morning. You will see that will settle it."

"I am afraid the threat will have the opposite effect. They have spoilt Helen in Hamburg. I believe she had rather go back to-day than Friday."

"_Eh bien!_ Then send the little obstinate damsel to Grunwald, to the model inst.i.tute of Miss Bear. The little Breesen has been brought up there, and she told me the other day it was rather a kind of penitentiary than a boarding-school; but the harder it is the more effective--I mean the threat. For I will be hanged if _ma chere cousine_ lets matters go to such an extremity--pardon me, dear aunt, I know you do not like such strong expressions."

"It is certainly a very bad habit of yours," said the baroness, rising.

Felix followed her example.

"Which I shall try to lay aside to please you," he added, offering his arm to the baroness.

"One thing more," said the latter, pausing a moment, "do you believe Grenwitz will consent?"

"If I believe it?" cried Felix, laughing in a manner which was by no means flattering for the poor old gentleman, "if I believe it? _Ma foi, chere tante_, has not my most worthy uncle been nearly twenty years under your orders? How long is it since I have the honor of serving under you? A few weeks, and I think I have learnt to obey pretty well already!"

"You are a flatterer," said the baroness, graciously, "but n.o.body can be angry with you."

And the worthy pair went off arm in arm.

When the voices could no longer be heard, the boy's face became visible once more in the open window. It was even paler than before. The boy threatened the two with a gesture of his arms, and his lips moved as if they were murmuring a grim malediction. Then, when the two had disappeared out of sight, he let himself down upon the bench where they had been sitting. By the bench on the thick moss lay a badly folded letter, which the baroness had dropped from her pocket. The boy picked it up, and when he saw that it was in Helen's handwriting he pressed it to his lips with pa.s.sionate tenderness. Then he concealed it carefully in his breastpocket, looked once more cautiously around, and the next moment he had disappeared in the bushes.

CHAPTER XIII.

When the ex-lieutenant's cunning valet had spoken of the irresistible power of his master in all love affairs, the fair s.e.x of the kitchen had cried out against him as uttering an insult to them all. But the man of much experience had smiled mysteriously, leaning back in his chair, after the manner of his master, and looking askant, but with a most expressive twinkle of the eye at one of the ladies, who had shown the deepest moral indignation, and the highest degree of eloquence in the unprofitable discussion. At this glance pretty Louisa had suddenly turned very red and become silent, so that she attracted the notice even of the taciturn coachman, who gravely repeated his former remark, that all was not gold that glitters. Thereupon pretty Louisa had begun to cry, and the old cook had risen and openly charged the valet with an unfair attempt to injure a poor girl by vile insinuations and "hateful looks." The adroit fellow, seeing that he had gone too far, immediately retraced his steps and a.s.sured them that his remarks had not been intended for anybody present, and that the twinkling of his eye was perfectly accidental. This very loyal and perfectly parliamentary explanation had finally restored peace in the company a.s.sembled around the kitchen fire.

Unfortunately, however, matters were exactly as the great man had suggested--betraying, it is true, the secrecy which was due to his master as a faithful servant, and which he was disposed to claim as a special merit of his own. Baron Felix had the bad habit--bad for himself and bad for his valet--of falling in love with every pretty girl whom he met on his way through life, although it might be only for a few days, hours, or even minutes, and to avail himself of every possible opportunity for an intrigue. Thus he had not been twenty hours at the chateau before he had found out that mademoiselle and pretty Louisa were the two persons who might help him kill time at this tiresome place, and during his troublesome courtship. Albert, his old comrade in many a similar heroic affair, when they were both cadets, had given him information about mademoiselle, and Jean, the valet, had received orders to see how the land lay about pretty Louisa. Albert had considered for a moment, thinking it might not be amiss to favor Felix, so as to make his intimacy with mademoiselle a pretext for himself, if he should wish to break with her at some future time. But finally the hatred he felt against his former comrade, the lucky fool, and a kind of jealousy he felt most unaccountably, had carried the day. He a.s.sured Felix that mademoiselle had told him herself of her positive engagement "to a candidate of divinity," heaven knows where, probably in Grunwald; that he had tried himself to get into her good graces, but as he had failed, he was quite sure any effort to succeed with the "black-eyed Genevese girl" would be fruitless.

Felix was not generally the man to be intimidated by such suggestions, but he was quite willing to abandon this enterprise, as his experienced scout had reported to him, as the result of his reconnaissance in the other direction, that there success was easy and sure. Don Giovanni Felix had thereupon opened the trenches in due form, and was, of course, by no means surprised when, a few days later, the little fortification surrendered at discretion.

And yet it was by no means easy to carry out a gallant adventure in the chateau. It had such a labyrinth of pa.s.sages, so many large and small staircases, which landed you suddenly in stories to which you had no intention of going, and so many doors which all looked alike, and made you enter any room but your own, that one who was not perfectly at home there was almost sure to go astray. Felix had paid the penalty of being a stranger, and had lost his way more than once by night, succeeding in regaining his room only after much trouble and hours of fruitless efforts. He preferred, therefore, to lie in wait for his little beauty in the garden, where shady walks and discreet bowers offered many a safe place for rendezvous, and which was as accessible to the denizens of the lower regions as to the great people of the chateau.

Thus he had stolen out this night also, and was waiting for his poor little victim in one of the bosquets, from which one could see the offices as well as the lower windows of the chateau. The great clock struck twelve--the hour fixed for the rendezvous. The moon was shining brightly; the dewdrops on leaves and flowers glittered in its rays; Felix could see by his watch that the castle clock was a quarter of an hour behind time. The lights in the chateau had disappeared one by one; only in two windows of the lower story towards the garden the light of a lamp was still shining through the red curtains. Felix saw the vague outlines of a figure at regular intervals appear, and then disappear again--evidently the occupant was walking up and down in the room. Then she must have sat down again at the piano, for single notes were heard, like the notes of a bird, who tries to sing his songs as he dreams in the moonlight; then they mingled into full accords, and at last Beethoven's glorious _Sonate pathetique_ poured forth its rich melodies, as if angels were singing while they hovered at midnight, with outspread wings, over the earth, gathering all the joys and all the sorrows of this world in their G.o.dlike hearts, and pouring them forth in one solemn anthem full of unspeakable sadness and heavenly sweetness. It would have been strange if Felix had really dared to lift up his eyes and to raise his hands towards the pure, chaste girl who was playing, without some feeling of remorse; for as he stood there, leaning against a column with an urn on top, and listening, he felt his own want of purity. He was not altogether without feeling; he could even become enthusiastic about what was really great and beautiful, although his enthusiasm did not last but a few moments, and vanished like a pretty bright soap-bubble, with its thousand varying hues, at the first rising of a frivolous thought. Who knows but that, at that moment, he resolved to lead another life hereafter, and to lay aside his follies?--and he had such a very good opinion of himself that no doubt he thought it sufficient to resolve in order to succeed. He listened to the music with a vague sense of reverence. His knowledge of music told him that the Sonata could not have been played better, or with more expression; he whispered at one or two pa.s.sages: Brava!

brava! as if he had been in a concert-room. But Helen and Beethoven, virtue and music, and whatever else might at that moment have pa.s.sed through his mind--all vanished in an instant, like a Fata Morgana, when his ear heard a stealthy step approaching. It came from another direction than that from which Felix expected his friend. But, then, pretty Louisa might have gone out of her way to avoid the walks which the moon lighted up with its bright light. The steps came nearer and nearer, and Felix, conceiving the original idea of playing hide and seek, stole back into the shrubbery. But what was his surprise when he saw, instead of pretty Louisa, Bruno glide past him! He could not help laughing at his mistake; but the next moment it occurred to him how this might endanger his rendezvous, and that it would probably be wiser to go back to the house. "Who knows how long the boy may loiter about here? may be he is in love, or he is crazy? He looks as if he might be either. Or he is moon-struck, and walks about here for a few hours. The rascal! He is always in my way; I have a great mind to give him a tangible proof of my friendly attachment for him. At all events I had better leave here. It is not too late yet to plead my love of moonlight for being out, but in a little while the excuse would hardly avail. I mean, however, to tell my excellent aunt of these night excursions of Mr. Stein's pupils."

Felix had nearly reached the house on his return without seeing Bruno, and was already hoping the boy might have left the garden, and his rendezvous might still be accomplished, when he suddenly caught sight of Bruno, just as he was crossing the lawn. The boy was sitting on a bench, his eyes fixed on Helen's window, from which music was still pouring forth; and so perfectly lost in devotion that he did not notice Felix till the latter was quite near him.

"What are you doing here so late at night?" asked Felix, whose anger sought vent at least in a few rough words; "I shall tell your aunt."

"Mind your own affairs," said Bruno, who had started up in the first surprise, advancing a few steps; but now, as he recognized Felix, whom he hated, he stopped in bold defiance.

"You are an impertinent boy," said Felix.

"And you a blackguard," replied Bruno, standing before him with folded arms.

"Who will punish you for your insolence," said Felix, boxing the boy's ears. Bruno staggered back a few steps. Felix saw, half frightened, how the boy's eyes began literally to burn; then he uttered a low, fierce cry from the depth of his throat--a great leap, like that of a leopard pouncing upon his victim, and the next moment Felix lay on the ground, and Bruno's powerful hands held his throat with an iron grip. Felix struggled desperately to shake off the boy and to rise again, but in vain. As often as he rose a little, trying to push Bruno aside with his arms, he felt his efforts paralyzed by superior strength, and the slender fingers enclosed his throat firmer and firmer.

"Let me go, Bruno," he groaned.

"Commend your soul to G.o.d, for you must die," Bruno growled.

Felix felt his strength giving way, while that of his adversary seemed to increase every moment. Deadly anguish fell upon him. He wanted to call for help, but his trembling lips could not utter a sound; he felt a low buzzing in his ears, which grew stronger and stronger; it became dark before his eyes, though millions of small stars were shooting about; fearful thoughts drifted like storm-laden clouds through his brains.--Suddenly, when the last glimmer of consciousness seemed to be extinguished, he felt the horrible burden leave his chest, and when he at last gathered strength to rise from the ground, he was alone. The moon was shining on the dark blue sky, the light in Helen's room had disappeared, the music was at an end, and Felix might have fancied his struggle with Bruno but a dream, if the reality had not been too well attested by the violent pains he felt in more than one part of his body, the sand that covered his clothes, and the ground turned up all around him.

With a heart filled with shame and rage he went back to the house, like a wolf who had attempted to surprise a flock, and had been driven back to the woods, bitten and wounded by a n.o.ble watch-dog.

CHAPTER XIV.

The baroness had missed Helen's letter the same evening. This discovery caused her no small dismay. The letter might so easily fall into wrong hands--hands that might return it to the girl, and thus expose her in her own daughter's eyes to sad disgrace! She should then irretrievably lose all the advantage which she had obtained by this insight into Helen's state of mind, and which she thought of rendering profitable to herself by frequent allusions and threatenings. It was unlucky, extremely unlucky!

The baroness remembered very distinctly having put the letter into the pocket of her dress as Felix was coming up the avenue. The probability therefore was, that she had lost it near the chapel. She remembered also having pulled put her handkerchief once during the conversation, in order to play the offended lady with greater effect. But it was too late that night to make any search for it; she had to spend a sleepless night, and wake up next morning with a violent headache. As soon as she could, she went into the garden and to the chapel. There was no letter to be seen, neither there nor in the beech avenue nor in the bower.

Very much disconcerted, the baroness returned to the house.

There new trouble awaited her. Oswald sent word that Bruno had pa.s.sed a sleepless night and was very unwell; would it not be better to send a messenger on horseback for Doctor Braun? He also begged that Malte might be kept down stairs, as he wished Bruno to be alone till the doctor came. The baroness sent back word that she hoped his indisposition would soon be over, and cause no interruption in the regular lessons. As for the doctor, she would let him know when they sent to town.