Saint Michael

He could not finish his sentence, for the door opened rather noisily and Clermont entered. The intruder did not seem to notice his friend's start, or the annoyed glance which his sister bestowed upon him, but called out, gayly, "Here I am! Now we can have a quarter of an hour together, Raoul."

The young Count's face betrayed his annoyance at this interruption, and, in the worst possible humour, he replied, "Unfortunately, I have no more time. I told you I had but a minute. Madame–"

He turned to Héloïse, and would apparently have addressed a question to her in an undertone, but Clermont suddenly interposed between them, and, laying his hand lightly upon his sister's arm, said, not without a certain significance, "If you are really in such a hurry we will not detain you, eh, Héloïse? Until tomorrow, then."

"Until to-morrow," Raoul repeated, grasping his hand hurriedly. He was evidently not inclined to make a confidant of his friend, but took his leave in no very satisfied mood.

Scarcely had the door closed after him, when the young widow turned to her brother with a very ungracious air: "You came most inopportunely, Henri."

"So I perceived," he replied, calmly; "but I thought it high time to put an end to the scene, which you were inclined to take seriously."

Héloïse tossed her head defiantly. "And if I were? Would you interfere to prevent it?"

"No; but I should explain to you that you were inclined to commit an act of supreme folly, and I trust nothing more would be required to bring you to reason."

"Do you think so? You may be mistaken," she said, exultingly. "You underestimate my power over Raoul. I have but to speak the word, and he will dissolve his betrothal and defy his family."

"And what then?"

The cool direct question put an end to the young widow's triumphant tone; she looked in surprise at her brother, who continued, very composedly: "You know the general. Do you suppose that he ever would forgive such a step, that he would ever consent to Raoul's marrying you? And Raoul cannot marry against his will, for he is entirely dependent upon him."

"He is his grandfather's heir, and the general is over seventy–"

"And has a constitution of iron," Clermont interposed. "He may live ten years longer, and you are scarcely so infatuated as to suppose that Raoul's passion or your own youth will last so long. You are full five years older than he."

Frau von Nérac folded her fan hastily and noisily. "Henri, you go almost too far!"

"I am sorry, but I cannot spare you. You cannot reckon upon the future; therefore you must comprehend the present. In a few years there will be no choice left you."

Héloïse made no reply, but her air was one of intense irritation. Evidently she felt outraged, but Clermont coolly continued: "And even supposing that Raoul should enter very shortly upon his inheritance, he would still be no fitting match for you. The general's salary enables him to live with a degree of elegance, but his grandson inherits nothing of that. Castle Steinrück is an article of luxury; it probably costs a yearly outlay; it certainly brings in nothing, and all the available property of the family belongs to the South German branch. The North German cousins all have very good reasons for entering either the army or the civil service. Their estates would, to be sure, be sufficient for the support of a country nobleman who, with his family, could consent to live upon his own soil and occupy himself with agriculture. But for you and Raoul,–the idea is ridiculous. Moreover, I am especially anxious that Raoul should remain at present upon good terms with his grandfather; through him alone can we know aught of the Steinrück establishment."

"You might do that much more easily through the Marquis de Montigny," said Héloïse, still irritated. "He has just been attached to our embassy here, and of course goes to his sister's very frequently."

"Certainly; but you are much mistaken if you imagine that the haughty Montigny would lend himself to such matters. He already treats me with a careless indifference that sometimes makes my blood boil. He would sacrifice his position rather than condescend– But enough of this! I fancy you now comprehend that Raoul's circumstances could never adapt themselves to your requirements; what those requirements are you proved with sufficient clearness during Nérac's lifetime."

"Was it my fault that he squandered his entire fortune?"

"You certainly helped him honestly in doing so; but we will not discuss that. The fact is that we are without means, and that you are forced to make a brilliant marriage. Your romance with Raoul must be nothing but a romance, and you would be very unwise to induce him to break with his betrothed. As long as the general lives, a marriage between you is an impossibility; after that it would be a folly. Remember this, and be reasonable."

"What is it?" asked the young widow, turning impatiently towards the servant, who brought her a card. "We are just going out, and can receive no visitors."

"A gentleman from the embassy wishes to speak with Herr von Clermont for a few minutes only," the servant said, by way of excuse.

"Ah, that is another affair," Henri said quickly, taking the card; but after a surprised glance at it he handed it to his sister, who, evidently startled in her turn, said,–

"Montigny? Calling upon you? You said just now–"

"Yes, I do not understand it; there must be some special cause for his visit. Leave us for a few minutes, Héloïse; I must receive him."

The lady withdrew, and Clermont desired the servant to admit the visitor, who straightway entered the room.

The Marquis de Montigny was a man about fifty years old, of very distinguished appearance, whose bearing, at all times rather haughty, was at present characterized by a certain cold formality. In spite of it, Henri received him with the greatest cordiality. "Ah, Herr Marquis, I am charmed to have the pleasure of receiving you. Let me beg you,"–he invited his guest by a gesture to be seated, but Montigny remained standing, and coldly rejoined,–

"You are probably surprised to see me here, Herr von Clermont."

"Not at all; our relations socially and nationally–"

"Are of a very superficial nature," the Marquis interrupted him. "It is an entirely personal matter that brings me here. I did not wish to discuss it at the embassy."

His tone was certainly slighting. Clermont compressed his lips and darted a menacing glance at the man who ventured to treat him thus cavalierly beneath his own roof, but he said nothing and awaited further explanations.

"I met my nephew a moment ago," Montigny began again; "he was probably coming from you."

"Certainly; he has just left here."

"And he, Count Steinrück, frequents your house daily, I hear."

"He does; we are intimate friends."

"Indeed?" was the cold rejoinder. "Well, Raoul is young and inexperienced; but I would call your attention to the fact that this friendship is quite worthless for you. No state secrets are confided to so young and insignificant a member of the department. They are very cautious here in such respects."

"Herr Marquis!" Clermont burst forth, angrily.

"Herr von Clermont?"

"I have frequently had occasion to object to the tone which you see fit to adopt towards me. I must beg you to alter it."

Montigny shrugged his shoulders. "I was not aware that I had neglected to treat you with due courtesy in society. Now that we are alone, you must permit me to be frank. I learned but lately of Count Steinrück's intimacy in your household, and I do not know how great may be Frau von Nérac's share in this intimacy. Be that as it may, however, you will understand me when I beg, or rather require, that the Countess be left entirely out of the question in the schemes which you are both pursuing. Select another individual,–one who is not the son of the Countess Hortense and the nephew of the Marquis de Montigny."

Clermont had grown very pale; he clinched his hands and his voice was hoarse as he rejoined, "You appear to forget that we are equals in rank. My name is as ancient and as noble as your own, and I demand respect for it."

Montigny measured him from head to foot with a haughty glance as he replied, "I respect your name, Herr von Clermont, but not your calling."

Henri made a movement as if to throw himself upon the insulter. "This is too much! I demand satisfaction!"

"No," said Montigny, as haughtily as before.

"I shall force you to grant it–"

"I advise you not to try to do that," the Marquis interposed. "You would only force me to proclaim why I refuse you what you ask. It would make you impossible in society, and impose upon me a responsibility which I should assume only in a case of extreme necessity. I repeat my demand. If it is not complied with, I must open the eyes of my sister and of her son. I think you will scarcely drive me to do so."

He inclined his head so haughtily and contemptuously that the salutation was almost an insult, then turned and left the room. Clermont looked after him, trembling with rage, as he muttered under his breath, "You shall pay me for this!"

The house of Colonel von Reval was a kind of centre for the social life of the capital, and was much frequented not only by people of rank and fashion, but also by members of the aristocracy of intellect. The colonel and his wife prided themselves upon numbering among their intimate friends the most distinguished lights of Art and Science, and their ample means enabled them to exercise a generous hospitality.

To-night, at the close of the winter season, all their friends and acquaintances were assembled beneath their roof at a final entertainment. It was far more brilliant in these spacious princely apartments than was possible in the comparative simplicity of their country-seat Elmsdorf, and the guests were far more numerous. They moved through rooms and halls bright with lights and flowers; there was gay talk and laughter, and the cheerful, lively mood that seemed to breathe in the very atmosphere of the Reval household reigned everywhere. Among the throng of commonplace and insignificant individuals, sure to be present at any great entertainment, there was an unusually large proportion of beautiful women and distinguished men. In fact, every one worth seeing and knowing in the capital seemed to be present here to-night.

General Steinrück, the life-long friend of the Reval family, was present with his family, and the brother of the Countess Hortense, the Marquis de Montigny, was of their party.

Even Professor Wehlau, who was not fond of large entertainments, and who eschewed them for the most part, had made an exception to his rule in favour of this evening, and had arrived with his two sons. Hans had not yet made his appearance: he was helping to arrange the tableaux vivants, which made part of the evening's entertainment, having undertaken their management, while Michael, having declined to take any part in them, was already among the guests.

"A word with you, my dear Rodenberg," the colonel said in an undertone, drawing the captain aside for a moment. "Have you done anything to displease the general?"

"No, Herr Colonel," replied Michael, quietly.

"No? It occurred to me that he passed you by without a word and with rather a cold acknowledgment of your undeniably formal salute. There is really nothing the matter, then?"

"Nothing whatever. I have talked with the general but once, when I reported to him, and have only seen him now and again when on duty. Why should he pay me any special attention?"

"Because he knows you and what you have done. He spoke very highly of it to me before he made your personal acquaintance, and, besides, I know that my opinion has weight with him. Nevertheless, he has taken scarcely any notice of you during the entire winter; you have never received the invitation usually extended by him to his subalterns, and when I speak of you he always tries to change the subject. It is inexplicable."

"The explanation is probably to be found in the fact that I have not the good fortune to please his Excellency," Michael said, with a shrug.

But the colonel shook his head: "The general is not whimsical; this would be the first time that he ever treated unjustly an officer of whose excellence he was convinced. You must have neglected some duty."

Rodenberg was silent, preferring to suffer under this implication rather than to prolong so annoying a discussion. Fortunately, the colonel was called elsewhere and released him.

Meanwhile, Professor Wehlau paid his respects to the Countess Steinrück, whom he had not seen for several years, and who received him very cordially. She never forgot that he had once left important and pressing affairs of his own to hasten to her husband's deathbed. To his inquiries concerning her health she replied by complaints of her invalid condition, expressing a desire to avail herself of his advice, although aware that he had for many years ceased to practise medicine. The Professor courteously declared himself always ready to make an exception in her case, and placed himself entirely at her disposal. Thus the best of understandings was established between them, when the Countess unfortunately touched upon a dangerous subject. "I have an appointment at your son's for tomorrow. He tells me that his large picture is almost entirely finished and is to be placed on exhibition next week. I am very anxious for a private view of it beforehand, since it is already mine, as you are probably aware."

"Yes," replied the Professor, laconically, his good humour all gone. Hans had triumphantly announced to him that his picture had been bought from the easel, and by the Countess Steinrück, who now innocently asked,–

"And what do you say to this work of our young artist?"

"Nothing at all; I have never even seen it," was the curt reply.

"What! His studio is in your garden."

"Unfortunately. But I have never set foot inside it, and mean never to do so."

"Still so implacable?" said the Countess, reproachfully. "I grant that the game that your son played with you was rather audacious and very provoking, but you must be convinced by this time that so talented and highly gifted a nature is not fitted for cold, grave, scientific pursuits."

"There you are right, madame," the Professor interrupted her, somewhat harshly. "The lad is fit for nothing serious or sensible, and may be a painter for all that I care."

"Do you estimate Art so meanly? I should have thought it of equal rank with Science."

Wehlau shrugged his shoulders with all the arrogance of the scholar who holds no calling equal in rank to his own, and by whom Art is regarded, more or less, as a plaything. "Yes, yes, pictures look very pretty in a drawing-room, I do not deny, and you have a whole gallery of them at Berkheim. This latest acquisition of yours will find a place among them."

The Countess stared at him in surprise. "You do not seem to know the subject of the picture; it is destined for the church at Saint Michael."

"For the church?" asked Wehlau, surprised in his turn.

"Certainly, since it is a sacred picture."

The Professor started to his feet. "What! My son paint a sacred picture!"

"Assuredly. Did he never tell you of it?"

"He took good care not to do that. Nor did Michael even mention it to me, although he doubtless knew all about it."

"He certainly did, for Captain Rodenberg stood to him for a model."

"Ah! He must have made a charming saint!" the Professor laughed, bitterly. "Michael is well suited to the part. Have the fellows gone crazy? Excuse me, madame,–I am conscious of my discourtesy,–but it is beyond belief,–that is, I must find out about it."

He bowed hastily, and rushed off so quickly that he very nearly ran against a young girl who was standing hidden in a window-recess, behind the Countess, and who looked after him half terrified.

"Gerlinda, are you there?" asked the Countess, turning towards her. "My child, what is to be done if, whenever you go into society, you hide yourself behind the window-curtains! If you had only been beside me you would have been presented to one of the celebrities of the capital."

The young girl advanced, and asked, timidly, "That angry old man who does not like sacred pictures–?"

"Is one of the first scientists of the age, a magnate in science, in whom all eccentricity must be forgiven. He is, it is true, of a rather choleric temperament."

Gerlinda still gazed after the Professor with some anxiety. No name had been mentioned in the conversation which she had overheard, and she asked no further question, for the beginning of the tableaux was announced, and all the guests betook themselves to the drawing-room, where the stage was set up.

Hans Wehlau, on this evening, covered himself with glory. The pictures which he arranged, not after famous examples, but after his own ideas, in illustration of familiar legends and poems, did honour to his artistic capacity. Each was a creation in itself, and every time the curtain was raised there was a fresh surprise.

The laurels of the evening, however, were borne off by the Countess Hertha Steinrück, enthroned upon a rock, in the richest of robes, as the Loreley. Hans knew very well why he chose to have this picture last in the series, placing the young Countess alone in the frame, with no companion-figure. A long-drawn 'Ah!' of admiration pervaded the assembly at sight of a loveliness that threw all else that had been seen into the shade. She was, indeed, the breathing embodiment of the legend with its intoxicating witchery.

Even Professor Wehlau forgot his vexation for a few minutes, although he had been nursing it all through the entertainment, and was all admiration. But when the curtain had fallen for the last time, and the youthful manager with his assistants appeared in the drawing-room, Wehlau's indignation began to boil afresh, and he tried to speak with his son. This was no easy matter, however, for Hans was in great requisition, the hero of the hour, flattered and caressed; he shared with the Countess Hertha the triumph of the evening. Nearly a quarter of an hour elapsed before the Professor succeeded in capturing him. "I wish to speak with you," he said, with an ominous countenance, drawing the young man aside into the window-recess where Fräulein von Eberstein had been standing.

"With pleasure, papa," said Hans, who was positively beaming with delight.

This only increased the Professor's vexation, and he came to the point at once. "Is what I heard just now from the Countess Steinrück true? Is the picture you have painted a sacred picture?"

"It is, papa."

"Indeed! Have you both lost your senses? Michael as a saint! It must be a perfect caricature."

"On the contrary, he makes an extremely striking archangel. The picture you see represents Saint Michael–"

"It may represent the devil, for all I care!" Wehlau angrily interrupted him.

"Oh, he's there, too, and as large as life. But how can the subject of my picture affect you?"

"How can it affect me?" the Professor burst out, having much ado to preserve the low tone of voice required by the situation. "You know my attitude with regard to the ecclesiastical party. You know that because of it I am excommunicated by the priests, and here you are painting pictures of saints for their churches. I will not permit it! I will not have it! I forbid it!"

"Impossible, papa," said Hans, composedly. "The picture belongs to the Countess, and is, moreover, promised to the church at Saint Michael."

"Where, of course, it will be installed with all due ecclesiastical pomp."

"To be sure, papa,–on the feast of Saint Michael."

"Hans, you will be the death of me with your 'To be sure, papa.' At the feast of Saint Michael, when all the mountain population is assembled,–oh, this grows better and better! The clerical newspapers will of course get hold of the affair; they will devote columns to the procession, the mass, the worshippers, and among it all will appear everywhere the name of Hans Wehlau,–my name."

"My name, if you please," the young artist interposed with emphasis.

"I wish to heaven I had had you christened Pancratius or Blasius, that the world might have known the difference!" exclaimed the Professor, in desperation.

"Papa, why are you so furious?" asked Hans, complacently. "In fact, you ought to be grateful to me if I should devote myself to the task of reconciling you and your opponents; and, moreover, the picture is not a sacred picture in the ordinary sense of the term. It is the conflict of light with darkness. I intended, of course, to portray in the figure of the archangel, Science, and in that of Satan, Superstition. It is after your own heart, papa,–a glorification of your teaching. I should like to hang the picture in the University, in your lecture-room, it is painted so exactly to please you. I hope you will be grateful to me and–"

"Boy, you will send me to my grave!" gasped the Professor, taken aback afresh by this extraordinary peroration.

"God forbid! We shall live together long and happily. But now excuse me. I must not stay here any longer."

With which the young man, quite unconcernedly, mingled again with the guests, and began to search for Michael.

In a small room adjoining the large drawing-room Fräulein von Eberstein was sitting quite lonely and deserted. When the curtain fell and the spectators began to circulate through the various rooms again, the Countess Steinrück had been in great requisition. All were anxious to compliment her upon her lovely daughter, and thus Gerlinda lost sight of her chaperon. Timid, and a total stranger among the crowd, she had taken refuge in this deserted room, here to wait patiently until some one should remember her and seek her out.

The young girl had been for a week in the city. The Freiherr had at last yielded to the Countess's wish, and to her repeated representation that Gerlinda ought to see something of the world and have a chance at least of marrying in her own station. This last consideration had prevailed over the father's obstinacy his state of health was such as to remind him constantly of the uncertainty of his life, and he well knew that if he should die Berkheim would be his daughter's sole refuge. She would be left quite alone, and, although the Countess had declared most kindly that after her daughter's marriage she should look to Gerlinda to replace her, old Eberstein's pride revolted at the idea of accepting what was in fact a shelter for his child, delicately as it might be proffered.

For this reason he would have been very glad to see his daughter well and suitably married. For him the word suitably signified a son-in-law with a long and stainless pedigree, and the aristocratic principles of the Steinrücks set his mind at ease on that score. Therefore he made Gerlinda repeat once more to him the entire genealogical chronicle of the Ebersteins, admonished her never to forget that she was sprung from the tenth century, and let her set off with the maid, sent by the Countess, for the capital, where she was to spend some weeks with the Steinrücks, and then accompany them to Berkheim.

The little châtelaine had of course no suspicion of any schemes devised for her future, and had taken but a half-hearted interest in her visit. The brilliant turmoil of society, of which she had a glimpse during her stay at Steinrück, and into which she was now plunged, distressed rather than amused her. Thus she felt glad to be alone for a few minutes on this evening, and sat quite contentedly, but timid as a frightened bird, on a corner divan in the empty room.

Suddenly the portière at the entrance was pulled aside, and a young man, casting a hasty glance around the room as if in search of some one, stood as if rooted to the spot upon perceiving its solitary occupant.

"Fräulein von Eberstein!"

Gerlinda started at the sound of that voice; she instantly recognized its possessor. "Herr von Wehlau Wehlenberg."

Hans was already at her side. He had had no suspicion of her presence here, or, indeed, in the city; his duties as manager had kept him behind the scenes, and when he entered the drawing-room Gerlinda had already left it. Their meeting was a surprise to both, and certainly not an unpleasant one, as was evident from the young man's sparkling eyes and the little châtelaine's blushing cheeks.