The Merchant of Berlin Part 49

"Say it once more--De Neufville is dead?"

Ephraim enjoyed for a moment, in silence, Gotzkowsky's terrible grief.

He then freed himself from his grasp and opened the door. But turning round once more, and looking in Gotzkowsky's face with a devilish grin, he slowly added, "De Neufville killed himself because he could not survive disgrace." And then, with a loud laugh, he slammed the door behind him.

Gotzkowsky stared after him, and his soul was full of inexpressible grief. He had lost in De Neufville not only a friend whom he loved, and on whose fidelity he could count, but his own future and his last hope were buried in his grave. But his own tormenting thoughts left him no leisure to mourn over his deceased friend. It was the kind of death that De Neufville had chosen which occupied his mind.

"He came to his death by his own hand; he did not wish to survive his disgrace. He has done right--for when disgrace begins, life ends--and shall I live," asked he aloud, as almost angrily he threw his head back, "an existence without honor, an existence of ignominy and misery? I repeat it, De Neufville has done right. Well, then, I dare not do wrong; my friend has shown me the way. Shall I follow him? Let me consider it."

He cast a wild, searching look around the room, as if he feared some eye might be looking at him, and read desperate thoughts in the quivering of his face. "Yes! I will consider it," whispered he, uneasily. "But not here--there in my cabinet, where every thing is so silent and solitary, no one will disturb me. I will think of it, I say." And with a dismal smile he hurried into his study, and closed the door behind him.

CHAPTER XIV.

ELISE.

The bridal costume was completed, and with a bright face, smiling and weeping for sheer happiness, Elise stood looking at herself in a large Venetian mirror. Not from vanity, nor to enjoy the contemplation of her beauty, but to convince herself that all this was not a dream, only truth, delightful truth. The maiden, with blushing cheeks, stood and looked in the gla.s.s, in her white dress, till she smiled back again; so like a bride, that she shouted aloud for joy, kissed her hand to herself, in the fulness of her mirth, as she greeted and smiled again to her image in the mirror. "I salute you, happy bride!"

said she, in the exuberance of her joy. "I see in your eyes that you are happy, and so may G.o.d bless you! Go forth into the world and teach it by your example, that for a woman there is no happiness but love, no bliss but that of resting in the arms of her lover. But am I not too simply clad?" cried she, interrupting herself suddenly, and examining herself critically in the gla.s.s. "Yes, indeed, that simple, silly child is not worthy of such a handsome and splendid cavalier: a white silk dress and nothing else! How thoughtless and foolish has happiness made me! My Heaven! I forgot that he comes from the land of diamonds, and that he is a prince. Oh! I will adorn myself for my prince." And she took from her desk the costly set of diamonds, the legacy of her mother, and fastened the glittering brilliants in her ears, on her arms, and the necklace set with diamonds and emeralds around her snow-white neck.

"Now that looks splendid," said she, as she surveyed herself again.

"Now perhaps I may please him. But the last ornament is still wanting--my myrtle-wreath--but that my father shall put on." Looking at the wreath, she continued, in a more serious and sad tone: "Crown of love and of death! it is woven in the maiden's hair when she dies as a maiden, whether it be to arise again as a wife or as a purified spirit." And raising her tearful eyes to heaven, she exclaimed: "I thank Thee, O G.o.d, for granting me all this happiness. My whole life, my whole future, shall evince but grat.i.tude toward Thee, who art the G.o.d of love."

Soon, however, it became too close and solitary in this silent chamber. She wished to go to her father, to throw herself on his breast, to pour out to him all her happiness, her affection, her joy, in words of thankfulness, of tender child-like love. How the white satin dress rustled and shone! how the diamonds sparkled and glittered, as, meteor-like, they flitted down the dark corridor! With a bright, happy smile, holding the wreath in her hand, she stepped into her father's room. But the apartment was empty. She crossed it in haste to seek him in his study. The doors were locked and no one answered her loud calls. She supposed he had gone out, and would doubtless soon return. She sat down to await him, and soon sank into deep thought and reverie. What sweet and precious dreams played around her, and greeted her with happy bodings of the future!

The door opened, and she started up to meet her father. But it was not her father--it was Bertram. And how altered--how pale and troubled he looked! He hardly noticed her, and his eye gleamed on her without seeing her. What was it that had so changed him? Perhaps he already knew that she was to be married to-day, and that her lover, so long mourned, had returned to her. She asked confusedly and anxiously for her father.

"My G.o.d! is he not here, then?" asked Bertram in reply. "I must speak to him, for I have things of the greatest importance to tell him."

Elise looked at him with inquiring astonishment. She had never seen him so intensely excited in his whole being, and unwillingly she asked the cause of his trouble and anxiety.

Bertram denied feeling any anxiety, and yet his eye wandered around searchingly and uneasily, and his whole frame was restless and anxious. This only made Elise the more eager to find out the cause of his trouble. She became more pressing, and Bertram again a.s.sured her that nothing had happened.

Elise shook her head distrustfully. "And yet I do not deceive myself!

Misfortune stands written on your brow." Then, turning pale with terror, she asked, "Do you bring my father bad news?"

Bertram did not answer, but cast his eyes on the ground to escape her searching gaze. There awoke in her breast all the anxiety and care of a loving daughter, and she trembled violently as she implored him to inform her of the danger that threatened her father. He could withstand her no longer. "She must learn it some time; it is better she should hear it from me," muttered he to himself. He took her hand, led her to the sofa, and, sitting down by her side, imparted to her slowly and carefully, always endeavoring to spare her feelings, the terrible troubles and misfortunes of her father. But Elise was little acquainted with the material cares of life. She, who had never known any extreme distress, any real want, could not understand how happiness and honor could depend on money. When Bertram had finished, she drew a long breath, as if relieved from some oppressive anxiety.

"How you have frightened me!" said she, smiling. "Is that all the trouble--we are to be poor? Well, my father does not care much about money."

"But he does about his honor," said Bertram.

"Oh, the honor of my father cannot stand in any danger," cried Elise, with n.o.ble pride.

Bertram shook his head. "But it is in danger, and though _we_ are convinced of his innocence, the world will not believe it. It will forget all his n.o.ble deeds, all his high-mindedness and liberality, it will obliterate all his past, and only remember that this day, for the first time in his life, he has it not in his power to fulfil his word.

It will condemn him as if he were a common cheat, and brand him with the disgraceful name of bankrupt." With increasing dismay Elise had watched his countenance as he spoke. Now, for the first time, the whole extent of the misfortune which was about to befall her father seemed to enter her mind, and she felt trembling and crushed. She could feel or think of nothing now but the evil which was rushing in upon her parent, and with clasped hands and tears in her eyes she asked Bertram if there was no more hope; if there was no one who could avert this evil from her father.

Bertram shook his head sadly. "His credit is gone--no one comes to his a.s.sistance."

"No one?" asked Elise, putting her hand with an indescribable expression on his shoulder. "And you, my brother?"

"Ah, I have tried every thing," said he; and even in this moment her very touch darted through him like a flash of delight. "I have implored him with tears in my eyes to accept the little I possess, to allow me the sacred right of a son. But he refused me. He will not, he says, allow a stranger to sacrifice himself for his sake. He calls me a stranger! I know that my fortune cannot save him, but it may delay his fall, or at least cancel a portion of his debt, and he refuses me.

He says that if I were his son, he would consent to what he now denies me. Elise," he continued, putting aside, in the pressure of the moment, all consideration and all hesitation, "I have asked him for your hand, my sister, that I may in reality become his son. I know that you do not love, but you might esteem me; for the love I bear your father, you might, as a sacrifice to your duty as a daughter, accept my hand and become my bride."

He ceased, and looked anxiously and timidly at the young girl, who sat blushing and trembling by his side. She felt that she owed him an answer; and as she raised her eyes to him, and looked into his n.o.ble, faithful face, which had never changed, never altered--as she thought that Bertram had always loved her with the same fidelity, the same self-sacrifice--with a love which desired nothing, wished for nothing but her happiness and contentment, she was deeply moved; and, for the first time, she felt real and painful remorse. Freely and gracefully she offered him her hand.

"Bertram," she said, "of all the men whom I know, you are the most n.o.ble! As my soul honors you, so would my heart love you, if it were mine."

Bertram bent over her hand and kissed it; but as he looked at her, his eye accidentally caught sight of the sparkling jewels which adorned her arms and neck, and aware for the first time of her unusually brilliant toilet, he asked in surprise the occasion for it.

"Oh, do not look at it," cried Elise; "tell me about my father. What did he answer you when you asked him for my hand?"

"That he would never accept such a sacrifice from his daughter, even to save himself from death."

"And is his fall unavoidable?" asked Elise thoughtfully.

"I almost fear it is. This morning already reports to that effect were current in the town, and your father himself told me that if Russia insisted on payment, he was lost irretrievably. Judge, then, of my horror, when I have just received from a friend in St. Petersburg the certain intelligence that the empress has already sent a special envoy to settle this business with the most stringent measures. This half a million must be of great importance to the empress, when, for the purpose of collecting it, she sends her well-known favorite, Prince Stratimojeff!"

Elise started from her seat in horror, and stared at Bertram. "Whom did she send?"

"Her favorite, Stratimojeff," repeated Bertram, calmly.

Elise shuddered; her eyes flashed fire, and her cheeks burned. "Who has given you the right to insult the Prince Stratimojeff, that you call him the favorite of the adulterous empress?"

Bertram looked at her in astonishment. "What is Prince Stratimojeff to you?" said he. "The whole world knows that he is the favorite of Catharine. Read, then, what my correspondent writes me on the subject." He drew forth a letter, and let Elise read those pa.s.sages which alluded especially to the mission of the imperial favorite.

Elise uttered a scream, and fell back fainting on the sofa; every thing swam before her; her blood rushed to her heart; and she muttered faintly, "I am dying--oh, I am dying!" But this momentary swoon soon pa.s.sed over, and Elise awoke to full consciousness and a perception of her situation. She understood every thing--she knew every thing. With a feeling of bitter contempt she surveyed all the circ.u.mstances--her entire, pitiable, sorrowful misfortune. "Therefore, then," said she to herself, almost laughing in scorn, "therefore this hasty wedding, this written consent of the empress--I was to be the cloak of this criminal intercourse. Coming from her arms, he was anxious to present me to the world. 'Look! you calumniate me! this is my wife, and the empress is as pure as an angel!'" She sprang up, and paced the room with hasty steps and rapid breathing. Her whole being was in a state of excitement and agitation. She shuddered at the depth of pitiable meanness she had discovered in this man, who not only wished to cheat and delude her, but was about, as if in mockery of all human feeling, to make herself the scapegoat of her imperial rival.

She did not notice that Bertram was looking at her in all astonishment, and in vain seeking a clew to her conduct. "This is too much!" cried she, half soliloquizing. "Love cannot stand this! Love!

away with the word--I would despise myself if I could find a spark of this love in my heart!" She pressed her hands to her breast, as if she wished thereby to extinguish the flames which were consuming her "Oh!"

she cried, "it burns fearfully, but it is not love! Hate, too, has its fires. I hate him! I know it now--I hate him, and I will have vengeance on the traitor! I will show him that I scorn him!" Like an infuriated tigress she darted at the myrtle-wreath which lay on the table. "The bond of love is broken, and I will destroy it as I do this wreath!" she exclaimed, wildly; but suddenly a gentle hand was laid upon her extended arm, and Bertram's soft and sympathizing voice sounded in her ear.

What he said, what words he used--he who now understood all, and perceived the fulness of her grief--with what sincere, heart-born words he sought to comfort her, she neither knew nor understood. But she heard his voice; she knew that a sympathizing friend stood at her side, ready to offer a helping hand to save her from misery, and faithfully to draw her to his breast. She would have been lost, she would have gone crazy, if Bertram had not stood at her side. She felt it--she knew it. Whenever she had been threatened with calamity, he was always near, to watch and shield, to afford her peace and comfort.

"Bertram! Bertram!" she cried, trembling in every limb, "protect me.

Do not shut me out from your heart! have pity on me!" She leaned her head on his breast and wept aloud. Now, in her sorrow, she felt it to be a blessing that he was present, and for the first time she had a clear consciousness that G.o.d had sent him to her to be a helping friend, a guardian angel.

The illusions and errors of her whole life fell from before her eyes like a veil, and she saw in a clear light both herself and Bertram.

And now, as she leaned her head upon his breast, her thoughts became prayers, and her tears thank-offerings. "I have entertained an angel unawares," said she, remembering, unintentionally, the language of Holy Writ. When Bertram asked the meaning of her words, she answered, "They mean that an erring heart has found the right road home."

She wiped away her tears with her long locks. She would no longer weep, nor shed a single tear for the false, intriguing traitor, the degenerate scion of a degenerate race. He was not worthy of a sigh of revenge, not even of a reproach. A mystery had slept in her breast, and she thought to have found the true solution in the word "Feodor!"

but she was mistaken, and G.o.d had allowed this long-mourned, long-desired man to return to her, that she might be allowed to read anew the riddle of her heart more correctly, to find out its deceitful nature, its stubborn pride, and to conquer them. Thus thinking, she raised her head from Bertram's breast, and looked at him "You asked my father for my hand. Do you still love me?"

Bertram smiled. This question seemed so strange and singular! "Do I love you?" asked he. "Can he ever cease to love who has once loved?"

"Do you still love me?" she repeated.