Saint Michael

"I fancied you far away in your mountain home," said Hans, taking a seat beside her. "How is your father?"

"Poor papa has been very far from well this winter," replied Gerlinda; "but as spring approached he grew better, so that I could leave him without anxiety."

"And Muckerl? How is Muckerl?"

The account of Muckerl's health was very satisfactory: she was as gay and hearty as she had been in the autumn; and as her young mistress talked of her she half forgot her timidity; she was so glad to tell of her home, and Hans did not interrupt her, but kept his eyes attentively fixed upon her face.

He had just seen the Countess Hertha in all the pride of triumphant beauty, and his artist eye had revelled in the sight. Here he saw only a delicate, child-like creature, who could not possibly be compared with that other, and whose soft brown eyes gazed up into his own half shyly, half confidingly. Nevertheless, little Dornröschen looked to him unutterably lovely to-night in her ball-dress of some airy, pale pink material, relieved by bunches of wild roses and floating cloud-like about the graceful figure. There was in her air and carriage something of the dewy freshness of a rose-bud just opening to the light.

"And how are you pleased here?" Hans asked, when the young girl paused. "Is there not something intoxicating, bewildering, in the life of a great city for one who mingles in it for the first time?"

Gerlinda shook her head and looked down. "I do not like it," she declared. "I would rather be at home with papa and my Muckerl. I feel so lonely and forsaken among all these strange people; they do not understand me, and I do not understand them."

"Oh, you will soon learn to understand them," Hans said, consolingly.

But she still shook her head; the poor child had a vague idea of what was ridiculous about her, and she went on in a pathetic little voice: "They seem to care so little here about their pedigrees! No one knows that we date from the tenth century, and that our family is the very oldest. If I begin to tell of it, Hertha says, 'Gerlinda, stop; you are making yourself ridiculous,' and my godmother says, 'My child, that is out of place here,' and Count Raoul smiles so disagreeably. I know now that he laughs at me. Herr von Wehlau Wehlenberg, you do not think it ridiculous, do you? Your aristocratic self-consciousness is so admirably developed, my papa says."

The knight of the Forschungstein felt extremely uncomfortable at this appeal to his aristocratic self-consciousness. It suddenly occurred to him that his sin had found him out, for as soon as Gerlinda returned to the drawing-room and heard his name, all would be explained. There was only one thing to be done,–make confession himself upon the spot.

"We searched through all the books of heraldry, and at last we found your family," the young girl continued, with an air of importance; and then, falling into what might be called her heraldic style, she began to repeat what had been found in the books: "The lords of Wehlenberg, an ancient imperial race, settled in the Margraviate since sixteen hundred and forty-three, owning estates of value in the various provinces, the head of the family being Baron Friedrich von Wehlenberg of Bernewitz–" Here she broke off to say, with some regret, "We could not find the Forschungstein."

"No, you could not find it, for there is no such place," said Hans, whose resolution was formed. "You and your father have fallen into an error for which I am accountable. I told you, however, at our first interview that I was an artist."

Gerlinda nodded gravely. "I told my papa; he thought it very unbecoming in a man of an ancient noble line."

"But I am not of an ancient noble line, nor even of a modern one."

Gerlinda looked terrified, and recoiled from him. The young man perceived it, and there was a trace of bitterness in his voice as he went on: "I have a confession to make to you, Fräulein von Eberstein, and forgiveness to ask for a deception which sprang from necessity. I reached the Ebersburg that evening wet through, and having lost my way; there was no other shelter to be found far and wide, night was falling fast, and the Baron refused me admittance because, as he would have expressed it, I was not 'of rank.' I had no choice save to be thrust out into the storm or to thrust myself into the ranks of the aristocracy, and I preferred the latter course. But I owe it to you to tell the truth. My name is simply Hans Wehlau, without any mediæval adjunct; I am a painter by profession; my father is a professor in the university here, and we are both bourgeois from head to foot."

The effect of these words was annihilating; the little châtelaine sat stark and stiff as if paralyzed with horror, staring at this bourgeois Hans Wehlau who told her so fearful a tale. At last she recovered her voice, folded her hands, and said, with a profound sigh, "This is horrible!"

Hans rose and made her a formal bow. "I confess myself very guilty, but I did not think that the truth would so startle you. I have, it seems, lost all worth in your estimation, and shall please you best by leaving you. Farewell, Fräulein von Eberstein."

He turned to go, but Gerlinda started and put out her hand as if to detain him. "Herr Wehlau."

He paused. "Fräulein von Eberstein?"

"Are you not very slightly related to the Freiherr Friedrich Wehlenberg of Bernewitz? A very distant relative, I mean."

"Not the most distant connection. I invented in a hurry a name that sounded like my own, and I never dreamed that it belonged to any one in reality."

"Then papa never will forgive you," Gerlinda declared in a tone of despair. "You can never come again to the Ebersburg."

"Do you, then, still wish me to come?" asked Hans.

She was silent, but her eyes filled with tears, and this disarmed the young man's irritation. It was not the poor child's fault that she had been brought up so ridiculously. He slowly approached her again, and said, gently, "Are you very angry with me for my foolish jest? I meant no harm."

Gerlinda did not reply, but she allowed him to take her hand, and she listened as he went on in the same tone: "Herr von Eberstein is greatly attached, I know, to his family traditions, and no one could require him, at his age, to resign what has been life to him for so long; he belongs, body and soul, to the past. But you, Fräulein von Eberstein, are just entering upon life, and in the nineteenth century we must adapt ourselves to the spirit of the age and see things as they are. Do you remember what I said to you on the castle terrace?"

"Yes," was the scarcely audible reply.

Hans leaned towards her, and his voice had the same cordial, sincere tone as on that sunny morning. "Around you, too, prejudices and traditions have grown like a thorny hedge, tall and dense. Would you dream away existence behind it? Perhaps a time will come when you will have to make a choice between a dead past and a bright sunlit future: should that time ever come, choose well!"

He carried the trembling little hand, still lying in his own, to his lips, and several moments passed before he released it; then he bowed and left the room.

The Countess Steinrück was conversing with Herr von Montigny when Gerlinda at last rejoined her. The Marquis expressed his pleasure in his nephew's betrothal with apparent sincerity. He was enthusiastic also in his admiration of Hertha, who had evidently fascinated him, as she had every one else upon this evening, and he understood well how to clothe his admiration in flattering phrases. When at last he took his leave to join his sister, the Countess turned to the young girl: "Where have you been for so long, my child? I lost sight of you. I suppose you have been sitting alone in some corner. Will you never learn to be like other young girls in society?"

She looked compassionately at her protégée, who was wont to receive such reproaches in timid silence, but who now, to the Countess's amazement, replied, with an air of great wisdom,–

"Yes, dear godmother, I will try to learn, for in the nineteenth century we must adapt ourselves to the spirit of the age and see things as they are."

Meanwhile, the Marquis de Montigny had found his sister sitting in an adjoining room engaged in lively talk with Frau von Nérac, in which Henri de Clermont took quite as lively a part. Both ladies seemed much entertained, and were laughing at his sallies, when Montigny approached the group.

"Ah, here you are, Leon!" the Countess called out to him. "No need to present our compatriots to you,–you have seen them at the embassy."

The glances of the two men encountered each other. Clermont's eyes gleamed for an instant with a look of hatred, but he bowed courteously; Montigny returned his greeting coolly as he said, "Oh, yes, we know one another."

He turned then to Frau von Nérac, to whom also he paid his respects courteously; but there must have been something in his manner offensive to the young widow, for her eyes flashed, although an amiable smile played about her lips.

"Of course we know one another," she repeated. "We had the pleasure of a visit from the Marquis the day before yesterday."

"And you never mentioned it to me when I spoke of Frau von Nérac yesterday," said Hortense, in some surprise.

"I was not fortunate enough to see Madame de Nérac," Montigny replied, with a degree of coldness which struck even his sister. "My visit was paid to her brother, with whom I wished to arrange a matter of some importance. You have not forgotten my request, Herr von Clermont?"

Henri's hand trembled slightly as he leaned upon the cushion of the lounge where he was sitting, but he replied, calmly, "No, Herr Marquis; such things are not easily forgotten."

"I am glad to hear you say so. I may rely upon it, then, that the matter will be adjusted as we decided. Take my arm, Hortense; supper is served."

He offered his arm to his sister, inclined his head to Frau von Nérac, and led the Countess away. As they left the room Henri leaned towards the young widow, and said in a whisper, which did not, however, conceal his agitation, "What do you mean, Héloïse? You know why Montigny paid that visit, you heard the whole conversation from the antechamber, and yet you ventured to allude to his coming!"

Héloïse's lip curled contemptuously, but she replied, also in a whisper, "You seem very much afraid of this Montigny."

"And you are rash enough to irritate him. You surely understood what he said as well as I did, and you know that he threatened–"

"That which he never will carry out."

Henri glanced around the room: it was quite empty; every one had gone to supper. Nevertheless, he still spoke in a whisper as he said, "Do you forget that we are in his power? He has but to speak the word–"

"He dare not speak it; it would cost him too dear. He who ruins us ruins himself also, and brings to light what there is every reason for concealing. You are a fool, Henri, to be frightened by such threats. Montigny must be silent; he risks his own position if he assault ours. He never would be forgiven for speaking out."

"No matter for that, he can do us an injury at the embassy; he can deprive us of our standing there, and it is uncertain enough already. We must yield, at least in appearance, and forego Raoul's visits for the present."

"Do you suppose that he will forego them?" asked Héloïse.

"That is for you to decide. You have only to say what will send him away, for a time at least, and this you must do."

"At the bidding of Herr von Montigny? Never!"

"Héloïse, be reasonable,–you must make a sacrifice of your personal feeling. I am sure I set you the example."

"Indeed you do! I never would have submitted to what you endured at Montigny's hands."

"Do you think I shall forget it?" asked Clermont, with an evil look. "I bide my time. The day of reckoning will come. But let us go in to supper; it will excite remark if we isolate ourselves thus. One thing more: young Wehlau is to present to you his adopted brother, Captain Rodenberg."

"Indeed," said Héloïse, with indifference, rising and taking her brother's arm, as he added, significantly,–

"One of the general's staff."

"Ah, indeed!"

"See that you persuade him to come with Wehlau, when the latter calls upon us. I rely upon you, Héloïse."

The pair sauntered arm in arm towards the supper-room, where all the guests were assembled.

Hans Wehlau, prudently avoiding another encounter with his father, had joined Michael, and was listening, with apparent interest, to what the latter had to say.

"You have seen her and talked with her then?" asked Hans.

"Seen her?–yes; talked with her?–no. The Countess presented me to Fräulein von Eberstein, but I received no reply to my remarks, save an extraordinary courtesy. She is almost a child,–far too young to be introduced into society."

"A girl of sixteen is no longer a child," said Hans, irritably. "And how did you like her altogether?"

"She has a lovely little face. To be sure, I have not seen her eyes,–she held them obstinately downcast,–and I really have not heard her speak at all. The little châtelaine, as you call her, seems to possess rather a limited capacity."

The young artist bestowed upon his friend a glance of sovereign contempt. "Michael, I always doubted your taste, and now I doubt your judgment. 'Limited capacity!' Let me tell you, Gerlinda von Eberstein is cleverer than all the rest put together."

"That is a bold assertion," said Michael. "You seem very much provoked by any unfavourable word with regard to the young lady. Have you lost your heart again? How many times does this make?"

"Nothing of the sort this time; my interest in this lovely, childlike creature is entirely disinterested."

"Indeed?"

"Michael, I will not have you speak in that tone," declared Hans, with irritation. "But I am quite forgetting that Clermont asked me to present you to Frau von Nérac."

"Clermont? Ah, yes, the young Frenchman at whose house you have been visiting so often this winter. You asked me once to go there with you, I remember."

"And you refused, as usual."

"Because I have neither the time nor the inclination to extend my circle of acquaintances, at least not this year. It is very different with you; you are an artist. Have you known this Clermont long?"

"No, only this last winter, and he very politely invited me to his house. He and his sister have several times asked me to induce you to accompany me."

Rodenberg looked surprised. "Me? That is strange; they do not know me at all."

"No matter for that; they asked it out of politeness. Moreover, you will find the young widow very interesting, perhaps even dangerous."

"Indeed?"

"Oh, of course not for you. Your icy nature never melts, even in presence of the lovely Countess Steinrück, and Héloïse von Nérac cannot be called beautiful; nevertheless she might prove the fair Hertha's successful rival in a certain quarter. I once hinted to you that Count Raoul was hardly loyal to his betrothed; he frequents Clermont's house daily."

"And you think that Frau von Nérac is the attraction?" asked Michael, becoming attentive.

"Apparently. The Count certainly is more devoted to her than is consistent with his duty as a betrothed man. How far the affair has gone of course I cannot– Hush, there he is!"

In fact, Raoul was just passing where they stood, and, although he had but a slight acquaintance with Hans Wehlau, he stopped and addressed him cordially. And whilst he talked with the young artist, complimenting him upon the very successful entertainment of the evening, he so persistently ignored Captain Rodenberg, who stood close by, that his intention was evident. Michael took no part in the conversation, but when the Count turned away, he looked after him in a way which caused Hans hastily and as if in sudden alarm to lay his hand upon his arm, saying, "You will not attach any importance to his rudeness? There is a feud between you and Steinrück–"

"Which found expression just now after a very childish fashion," Michael completed the sentence. "Count Raoul must be taught that I do not allow myself to be so treated."

"What do you intend to do?" said Hans, uneasily; but there was no time for a reply, for they had encountered Clermont and his sister, to whom he presented his friend.

The brother and sister received the captain with great courtesy, and Henri left him to talk with Frau von Nérac, while he entered into conversation with Hans with regard to a picture upon an opposite wall, pronouncing an opinion with which the young artist disagreed. A lively discussion between the two ensued, in the course of which they walked across the room to examine the picture more closely, leaving Frau von Nérac to bestow her entire attention upon Rodenberg.

Their conversation turned at first upon the assembled guests, and the young widow, looking towards Hertha, who was the centre of an admiring group, said, "Countess Steinrück is indeed a brilliant beauty! The entire assemblage is at her feet, and she receives its homage with the air of a princess to whom such tribute is due. She will surely rule her future husband supremely."

"The question is whether the husband will submit to her sway," observed Rodenberg.

"A husband always submits to the sway of a beautiful and beloved wife. You, indeed, seem unaccustomed to submit."

"Only because I am quieter and graver than most men; even where a beautiful woman is concerned, I do not easily lose my head. I am ignorant of Count Steinrück's views in this respect. You know him intimately, madame?"

"He is a friend of my brother's, and I naturally see him often."

The answer sounded as innocent as did the question, but there was something like dawning mistrust in the look which encountered Michael's cool observant gaze. It lasted but for an instant, and then Héloïse began with a smile to talk of something else.

She talked well and fluently, and Michael, although he spoke French with ease if not with elegance, contented himself with listening. All manner of subjects were touched upon, politics, the news of the day, art, and society. Frau von Nérac was evidently a mistress of the art of conversation.

Rodenberg had perceived at the first glance that she was not beautiful, but at the end of five minutes he comprehended that she did not need beauty to be dangerous; there was something intoxicating in her mere proximity. She leaned back in her chair with a grace all her own as she toyed with her fan, presenting a picture to which the most tasteful of toilets added a charm. Her smile was bewitching, and the gleam in her dark eyes was wont to work like a spell. Unfortunately, Captain Rodenberg seemed quite insensible to this charm; as often as the brilliant eyes met his they encountered the same cold, scrutinizing glance, and Héloïse knew well that it expressed no admiration.

At last Clermont and Hans finished their discussion and approached the others. For a few moments the conversation was general, and then the two young men took their leave, and Henri again seated himself beside his sister.

"Well, what about Rodenberg?" he asked. "So far as I could hear, he was extremely monosyllabic. You did almost all the talking. I suppose he is a clumsy, pedantic German."

Héloïse gave a scarcely perceptible shrug. "Give that man up, Henri, once for all; he is as stolid and inaccessible as a rock."

"No one is absolutely inaccessible; all must be besieged on the right side, and it is just these stolid natures that are most easily captured."

"You are mistaken here. There is something in the air and expression of this Rodenberg that reminds me constantly of General Steinrück. He has the iron, inexorable look–that cold, keen gaze–of the old Count. I cannot endure him!"

"He is of great importance to me," said Henri. "Did you ask him to the house?"

"No; he would not come if I were to do so; and if by any chance he did come, it would be to observe, to watch, as he has just done all the while I have been talking. I have no fancy for encountering those eyes again. Be on your guard with him, Henri!"

Clermont did not seem to attach much importance to this warning, for he saw that Héloïse was out of sorts, and he knew why she was so. She could not endure to be cast into the shade by another, and on this evening all lesser lights paled before the day-star of Hertha's beauty. The young Countess Steinrück was enjoying a triumph that might well satisfy the most extravagant vanity. Wherever she turned she encountered looks of admiration; all thronged about her to offer her a homage which she received graciously but haughtily.

Raoul scarcely left her side. He seemed to-night to be fully conscious of the value of the prize which had fallen to his share so easily, and the old love for his cousin, dating from his boyhood, flamed up afresh. It was one of those crises when one loving glance from Hertha's eyes, one cordial word from her lips, might perhaps have delivered him from those other fetters, and have won him back to his betrothed,–bridging over the gulf which each day yawned more widely between them. But there was a cold reserve, imperceptible to strangers, in her demeanour towards him which cut him to the soul, chilling all warmth of feeling and awakening his antagonism.

For the moment the young Countess was not in the reception-rooms, but in Frau von Reval's dressing-room. Like all who had taken part in the tableaux, she had retained her costume; the veil that floated over her shoulders had become disarranged; Frau von Reval's maid was fastening it afresh. It was soon adjusted, and the maid dismissed; but Hertha, instead of returning to the reception-rooms, sat motionless in an arm-chair, gazing dreamily into space.

Frau von Reval's dressing-room was one of a suite of rooms quite removed from those used for entertaining, and upon this evening the entire range of apartments upon this side of the house was deserted, and but dimly lighted,–a quiet, agreeable refuge for any one wishing to withdraw for a few minutes from the heat and turmoil of the drawing-rooms. The young Countess seemed, indeed, weary, worn out with conquest and homage.

Yes, the evening had been one long triumph for her. All had bowed before the victorious power of her beauty,–all save one. One alone had dared to defy her; he only had retained sufficient strength of will in the tempest of passion to break the meshes of the net thrown around him, and go on his way free from all bondage. Had he not greeted her to-night as coldly and formally, complimented her with as conventional a courtesy, as if that hour at Saint Michael were forgotten, obliterated from his memory?

All the more vividly did it live in Hertha's remembrance. Her anger stirred afresh as she thought how this man had dared to tell her to her face that he knew her to be a coquette, that he would root out from his heart, like some vile weed, his love for her. But, in the midst of her indignation, a voice within her whispered that he was right. Yes, she had played a reckless game with him. It was the result of the waywardness of a nature spoiled by fortune, trained by a weak mother to disregard all save its own desires, and learning all too early to despise the homage of the other sex, or to use it as a plaything. But then, formerly, she had still been free! The proud, self-willed girl had not yet felt as a fetter the disposal of her hand; she could still have said 'no' when asked to decide. Instead of this she had given her consent to Raoul freely, without compulsion,–as, indeed, without love. But was love a reality? Had she not seen how an intense passion, which seemed to fill a man's entire soul, could die away and perish in a few months?

The opening of a door in an adjoining room and approaching footsteps roused Hertha from her revery, and admonished her that it was time to return to the assemblage. She was about to rise, when a voice which she recognized held her motionless.

"Here we are alone. I shall detain you for but a few moments, Count Steinrück."

"You wished to speak with me alone, Captain Rodenberg; I am at your service," was the reply in Raoul's voice.

Hertha could neither see the new-comers nor be seen by them, but she listened, startled; what she heard sounded harsh, hostile.

In fact, the two young men in the next room confronted each other with a hostility which neither now took pains to conceal, but Raoul was irritated and excited, while Michael was calm and cool; this, of course, gave him an advantage from the beginning.