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CHAPTER IX

My solitude was soon broken in upon by a visit from Baron Arven. I was astonished to find him looking so sad. "Is there still so much of the old Austrian officer left in him?" I asked myself. He soon relieved me of all doubts on that head, and, in a tone which showed how he had struggled with and conquered his grief, told me that in many things, and especially in religious matters, he and his wife had not agreed. He had, at last, conquered himself, and had determined to let her have her own way; but now-he said it with apparent reluctance-the long-impending rupture had occurred, under circumstances almost too terrible to bear. Although he knew that, as a Czech and a Catholic, his wife hated Prussia, he could hardly believe his ears when she said, "All saints be praised! The French are coming! Our deliverance is at hand!" Her words had provoked him into unpardonable vehemence of language.

He hardly dared say it, but she had actually made a French flag, with the intention of displaying it as soon as the enemy should arrive, – an event of which she had felt perfectly assured. He never thought that his wife had political opinions of any kind, because mere abuse of Prussia does not argue the presence of political convictions. He had carefully avoided affronting her feelings as a Czech; for he well knew how the Czechs resent the fact of their being dependent on German culture. But he could never have believed that her hatred of Germany could have carried her so far as to allow her to connive at the correspondence with France, which was carried on under cover of her address, and with complete ignorance, on her part, of its origin.

The village clergyman had been to see her, and must have given her strange information, for she now insisted on leaving for Switzerland at once.

"God be praised!" said I, "let her go." I told him that her intended departure was already the topic of common talk.

The Baron, however, feared that her course might be fraught with evil consequences to the whole neighborhood, as he thought that her fleeing to Switzerland might awaken a panic.

To me, it seemed as if he were trying to justify his course in allowing her to leave. I assured him that no one doubted his patriotism, and he begged me not to divulge what he had told me.

I succeeded in reassuring him, and he seemed to recover from his depression. He felt that I fully sympathized with him. And can anything be sadder than to find that one's love of country is opposed and ridiculed in his own home? The antagonism which had so long been veiled under courteous forms, now broke forth with redoubled venom and fury.

"Your hearty sympathy does me good," said the Baron; "and I feel like a changed being since I have unbosomed myself to you-just as if I had withdrawn my hand from a bleeding wound, which can now flow freely."

I understood him. Grief which has been long repressed, and at last finds vent in words, renews itself while the sufferer speaks of it.

When I mentioned this to him, he took my hand and held it in his for a long while.

"But we must not think of our own little lives," he added; "great questions now claim us. If France should fail of success, she is still France; but if we meet with defeat, we shall become the prey of others."

I learned from him, for the first time, that the opposing bishops had handed in a protest against the promulgation of the doctrine of Papal infallibility, and that, as the measure had been determined on, in spite of their protest, they had left Rome.

When I told him of what had happened in the city-omitting, of course, all mention of my interviews with the Prince-his features assumed an expression of cheerfulness.

He was about to leave, when Martella entered, and asked, "May I show it to the Baron?"

Before I could answer her question, she took the letter of pardon from her satchel and spread it out on the table, at the same time saying that Rothfuss and Ikwarte were foolish enough to think that it was of no account, because it came from so petty a prince.

Baron Arven assured her that the paper would be of immense importance, if Ernst could be found again.

"Now I shall not ask another person," joyfully exclaimed Martella; "that seals it doubly-and just see how nicely it fits into my little satchel!"

She replaced it in the satchel and rubbed her hands over the embroidery, which represented a dog carrying a bird between his teeth.

The Baron rode off just as the letter-carrier arrived. He brought me a letter from my sister-in-law, who lives in the forest of Hagenau. She wrote to tell me that, on account of the war, her daughter's marriage had been hastened, and that, as there was danger that the incendiaries might come, she had instructed her daughter to remain at Strasburg, to which place she had sent all her stores of linen and other valuables. In case any of our ladies were alarmed, she would be willing, she wrote, to place them under protection at Strasburg.

About that time, we had sorrow in our house on account of the death of old Balbina. She had been our faithful servant for thirty years. When we attempted to console her by saying that she would recover from her illness, she would answer, "Don't mind me; I shall go to my good mistress, and she will give me the best place."

It was not until after my wife's death that I learned how much she had done for this servant, for then Balbina said to me:

"I was very wicked, but she converted me."

"Wicked? why, what could you have done?"

"I committed a theft when I had only been in the house a week. She caught me and spoke to me in private, saying: 'Balbina, I dare not send you off; for then you will steal from others, just as you have done here. I must keep you with us until you conquer this habit.' And it turned out just as she said, for during the thirty years I've lived in this house, my hands and lips have never touched a morsel that was not mine."

Balbina died without receiving extreme unction. She regarded her confession to my wife as having fully absolved her.

We never interfered with the religious opinions of our servants, but when the priest told Balbina that Protestants would not go to heaven, she answered, "I don't want to go to any other heaven but the one where my mistress is."

We were now on the high road towards political unity, but was not the antagonism in religious matters greater than ever before?

Ludwig wrote to Conny, informing her that he would soon return. She often told me that her father, had, until his dying hour, cherished a love of the Fatherland, and that no two men had ever had more beautiful and affectionate relations with each other than Ludwig and her father.

Their projected journey to Italy was out of the question. How could they now find pleasure in works of art? Ludwig would not rest content until he could, in some way, be of service to his country.

Suddenly, there was great commotion in the village and cries of "The French are coming!" were heard.

Lerz the baker had been driving along the valley-road at full tilt, and had called out to the people who were working in the fields, "Unhitch your horses! the French are coming!" They took the animals from their wagons and ploughs and hurried homeward. But it soon turned out that the news was false.

I do not think that this was wanton spite on the part of Lerz. He swore-although his oath was of but little value-that a farmer from down the valley had told him that he had seen the French. The rumor had indeed been spread far and near, but no one could tell who had started it.

CHAPTER X

What could it have been that made me feel so proud when my fellow-citizens elected me as their delegate? I was still full of self-love, for, when I searched in my own heart, for the real cause, it lay in a self-complacent satisfaction in the fact of my being the chosen representative of many others.

All this was now changed. Now none were chosen, but all were called. The whole people had become freed from egotism, and no one was isolated. Of course the sacrifice was not made without a pang. All thoughts were no longer centred on one man, but were directed towards a great invisible object which was cherished by the whole people.

Sunbeams seemed to light up every tree and house, and the whole world seemed to have undergone a change.

And how all felt drawn towards each other; they had ceased to be strangers-we could not have enemies in our own land.

I met Funk and could not avoid shaking hands with him and saying, "I admit that you thought you were acting for the best, in all you have done."

"Thanks for your good opinion," answered Funk, while he barely returned the pressure of my hand. I made no reply. I had followed my own convictions, and that is always well, even though others do not approve of one's course.

I drove to town with Joseph, in order to attend the weekly market. It had never been so numerously attended, for every one that could manage to procure a vehicle, or get away from home, hurried to town in order to learn what was going on in the world. And, besides that, all wanted to assure themselves whether it would be best to sell supplies to the dealers at present prices, or, to wait for an advance, and run the risk of being plundered by the French in the meanwhile.

It was soon seen who believed that the Germans would succeed, and who believed in the French. Schweitzer-Schmalz, and a large number who followed his example, sold their hay, their oats, and their bacon.

Joseph speedily became the centre of a large crowd. He excels us all in knowing how to adapt himself to people of every kind. His fine, large figure and cordial manner make him a universal favorite, while his well-known riches are not without weight.

The crowd were impatient, and complained that we had not yet heard of any actual hostilities. He asked them:

"Have you never been in a saw-mill?"

"Certainly we have."

"Well, how do they manage there? They set the wheel and let the water run until the log is in the proper position; then they go ahead and saw it right through. Have a care. The Prussian, or, as we had better say, the German, waits until the log is in the proper position, and then he goes to work with seven saws at once."

Joseph understood the feelings of the people, and felt especial satisfaction that Schweitzer-Schmalz seemed quite lonely and deserted in the midst of the crowd. He simply smiled, when Schweitzer-Schmalz said, "This little fellow. Joseph is all talk, like the Prussians."

Joseph and I called on Martha, for I had promised Julius to visit his wife as soon as possible.

We found her and the rest of the family calm and resigned, although the son and the son-in-law were in the field.

For the first time since I had known him, the Privy Councillor revealed a sense of his noble birth. He dwelt on the fact that, as a member of one of the oldest families in the land, he belonged to the order of St. John, and that he and Baron Arven would soon enter on their duties as members. He explained to me that it was an old order, but that a man like myself might also become a member. I had never thought of that before, but now it struck me forcibly.

The ladies requested me to accompany them to the courthouse, where the Sanitary Commission was to assemble. On the steps, I met Remminger, the so-called "peace-lieutenant."

He seemed quite agitated, and urgently requested me to accompany him to the house of his father-in-law, where he wanted me to act as umpire. He gave me no further information, but said that I should find out all about it when we arrived there.

I found the family in great distress. The lieutenant, who had left the army on account of marrying the daughter of Blank, the rich lumber-merchant, had become quite an adept in his new calling, but had been even more devoted to the pleasures of the chase. He had just announced his intention to enter the army again; in justice to himself, he could not remain a mere looker-on in the moment of danger.

Old Blank maintained that this was a breach of promise, and I saw how the lieutenant clenched his fists when he heard that expression; but he controlled himself and calmly explained the matter, stating, at the same time, that he asked me to decide between them.

I knew all about Blank. He was one of those men of whom one can say nothing evil, and nothing good. All that he asked of the world was to be left undisturbed while attending to his business and adding to his wealth. He was a zealous reader of the newspapers, and would smoke his good cigar while enjoying them. It suited him best when there was lots of news. Others might act for the state, the district, and even for the community, so that he might read about what they had done. He could not realize that one who belonged to his family could care to exert himself for the general good. I saw this in every word that he uttered. I allowed him to speak for some time without replying.

"And what is your opinion?" I said, addressing the lieutenant's wife, who stood by the window, plucking dead leaves from the plants that were placed there.

"Shall I call in our three children, so that you can ask them?" she answered, in a harsh voice.

"Little children have no opinions as yet; but their parents ought to think for them."

I asked old Blank whether he would be satisfied with my decision.

"Since you ask in that way, you are, of course, opposed to me, and for that reason I say no."

I saw that I could be of no use, declared that I would not attempt to decide, and left the family to settle their dispute among themselves.

When I left there, I was the more pleased to meet the Councillor Reckingen, who lived in the town, and who had visited me shortly after Ernst's flight. He had conquered his feeling of loneliness and grief at the shocking death of his wife. He lived alone with his only daughter, and had devoted all his time to her education. She was just budding into womanhood.

This man, who had always seemed troubled and absentminded, now approached me with a cheerful smile, and said that he had the good fortune to be again permitted to enter on his calling; and that, as a result, his child, who had been so constantly with him that he had begun to be alarmed for her future, would now be obliged to accustom herself to a life of self-reliance and activity; for the wife of the Privy Councillor had already expressed her willingness to have his daughter stay with her during the campaign.

We were standing by the stream, where the water rushes over the dam with a mighty roar, and he said:

"You are like me; in great times all little troubles disappear, just as the thundering of these falling waters drowns all other sounds."

I passed a delightful hour with the Councillor in his lovely garden, which was carefully and tastefully kept. He had been very fortunate in cultivating roses, and I was obliged to permit him to pluck a lovely one for me from every bush.

"She loved roses, and cared for them above all things," were his words while he handed me the nosegay.

According to promise, Ludwig returned, bringing Ikwarte with him. He had written to Conny and Wolfgang to come to town. He told us that he had caused his name, and also Wolfgang's and Ikwarte's, to be entered with the Sanitary Corps. They wore the white band with the red cross on their arms, and soon started in the direction of the Rhine to join the main army.

Conny went home with me.

CHAPTER XI

When we reached the saw-mill, a wood-cutter was waiting for me, and told me that Rautenkron, the forester, urgently requested that I would come to him at the bone-mill which lay in the adjacent Ilgen valley.

The wood-cutter told me that one could hardly recognize Rautenkron-something horrible must have happened to him.

I found Rautenkron seated in the bone-miller's room. He said to the miller, "Put enough bones into your kiln, old Adam, so that you may keep away for an hour, and then go and leave us by ourselves."

The miller left.

"Take a seat," he said, in a tone to which I was unused in him; his features and his manner seemed changed.

After a forced laugh, he thus began: "I have bought my bones back from this man-I had sold them to him for a bottle of gentian; and it used to amuse me to think how my noble self would, at some future time, be converted into grass and flowers on the hillside, and perhaps furnish food for cattle.

"But, pardon me," he said, interrupting himself; "forgive me, I beg of you; I ought not to address you in that tone. Forget this, and listen to me with patience. I will confide my last will to you; you have often provoked me, but now I am glad that you are here. The thought of you followed me in the woods, sat by me at my bedside, and has deprived me of rest. I have always wanted to learn what your weak side was, and now I have found it out.

"My father was a worldly-wise man. He divided mankind into two classes-charlatans and weaklings. He maintained that in all that is termed love, be it love of woman or love of the people, there is a large portion of charlatanry, which at first consciously, and afterward without our knowing it, deceives both ourselves and others. You are not a charlatan-but you are vain.

"Do not shake your head, for it is so. Of course, vanity is not a vice; but it is a weakness, for it shows dependence on others. You offered your hand to Funk, because you felt too weak to have an enemy running about in this world. Since I have made that discovery and convinced myself on that point, you no longer worry me. You too have your share in the misery that belongs to the species of vermin that terms itself man. It is out at last-now I have nothing more against you. Indeed, I cannot better prove this than by the fact of my asking you to help me. Usually, I have not required the assistance of others, but now I need yours; and I think that is enough to make you feel that you must aid me."

I consented, but in my own mind I felt a dread of this man, who, in his bitter candor, seemed much more terrible than when taciturn.

"I request, nay I demand-" he continued-"do not interrupt me; let me speak for myself.

"Do you know who I am? For years, I have been called by a strange name. You cannot imagine how pleasant it is to be so constantly a masker, in the mummery known as life. I shall not, at present, mention my true name, but you may rest assured it is an old and a noble one, and related to that of Johannisberg.

"My father-he was indeed my father-had become reduced, and he led a merry life, although I did not know where the means came from. At a later day, I discovered all. He purchased a captaincy for me. 'Purchased,' he said, but it had really, so to say, been presented to him. He had carried others' hides to market; perhaps a couple of human skins to be tanned. His master had many of these tanners in the state vade mecums known as prisons.

"I was, as I have told you, a captain at Mayence, and my father lived near there, at Wiesbaden. He was known as Hofrath.

"I do not know whether what people call conscience ever pricked him, but he was always merry and fond of good living, and enjoyed it as much as the stupidest monk might do. He would always say to me, 'Conrad, life is a comedy; he who does not take it in that light, but looks upon it in a serious manner, spoils his own game.'

"I thought I had much to tell you, but I have not. My story is simply this:

"My father had a habit of asking me about my comrades, – what they were doing, what they were thinking of, and to whom they wrote; and I faithfully told him all I knew. You may believe me! I, too, was once open-hearted. But, one day, two of my comrades were suddenly cashiered. Letters of theirs had been found-not found, but sought-which, it was said, contained treasonable expressions. All of us at the garrison were beside ourselves with surprise, and I suspected nothing.

"Until the year 1848, our regiments had recruiting stations where soldiers were enlisted and received a good bounty. In a Gallician regiment which formed part of the garrison of the fortress-there were also Italian regiments in it-a very clever young Pole had been enlisted. He learned the drill, was a good horseman, and his captain wished that he would study German, in order that he might become an officer; but he did not care to do so, and said that he could not write. One day we learned that he had deserted. They found a letter from him, although he had said that he could not write. It was in choice French, thanked the captain for his kind treatment, and added that he had come and gone by the command of others, high in station. For some days they spoke of the fact that the Russians were even more successful than we as spies. For this man had evidently joined us only in order to inform himself as to the disposition of the Gallicians. It did not strike me at first, but afterward I could not but notice the fact that they always talked to me about spies.

"A young Prince joined our regiment. He became an intimate associate of mine, and seemed to take a special liking to me. My father seemed much pleased with this, but gave me less money than he had formerly done. I was obliged to borrow from the young Prince and to ask favors at his hands. Yes, the world is wise, if one only knew it at the right time. I found it out too late. Is it not ingenious, and does it not do all honor to the human intellect, to discover that it is well to incur an obligation in order to acquire more perfect confidence on the part of those to whom we owe a debt? Although the lynx out there is ever so cunning, it cannot do such work; that is reserved for the image of God.

"One day my father said to me-yes, my father-'Conrad, (that is my baptismal name), 'you are now employed at the officers' quarters; the adjutant of the post cannot be trusted; be careful that you get hold of something that involves him; but let it be in writing. That aroused my suspicions that something was wrong. One day, a fellow-officer said to me, 'There is a spy in our regiment,' and all the other comrades laughed. I challenged the one who had thus spoken to me, and-shot him.

"But I am anticipating-I must first tell you of another matter. I always had a great desire to be a forester. I often begged my father to permit me to leave the army, but he would not consent. And I would have been so glad to marry and live quietly in the woods; for I had a child, a lovely, beautiful child.

"And then, on account of the duel, I was imprisoned in the citadel. No comrade visited me.

"When I left the prison, my child and the mother had vanished. She had received a letter, in my handwriting-my father knew how to imitate the writing of others-in which was contained a considerable sum, to enable her to emigrate-and she had left. A companion of hers in the ballet, who had been a suitor for her affection, and had, heretofore, been rejected, had accompanied her.

"My papers had been confiscated, and I feel quite sure that it was done at my father's instance, for he distrusted me, and wished to get me out of harm's way.

"Among them there was also a memento of my beloved; it was a little narrow red ribbon tied in a knot and torn off at both ends. She had given it to me in a happy moment, and I had fastened it on a sheet of paper and had written under it 'talisman.'

"All of my papers were returned to me, but not the ribbon. My father had sent it in the letter to my beloved, and had, moreover, written, in my name, 'By this sign I request you to obey the bearer of this in all that he may require of you.'

"My father said to me: 'She whom you call your wife has left by my orders.' Through a former friend of hers, I received a letter in which she asked me whether I had caused the child to be taken from her; because it had suddenly vanished about the time the vessel was leaving."

"What ails you? What alarms you?" suddenly exclaimed Rautenkron.

I controlled myself and begged him to go on with his story.

"I left my father and led an adventurous life. Pshaw! I have even been croupier at a gaming-table. And there I heard that my father was dead. On the day before, I had seen him staking rouleaus of gold-he had not recognized me.

"By chance I made the acquaintance of Baron Arven, and through him I received the appointment of forester in his woods, after having, as assistant-forester, learned my profession from Hartriegel.

"I bear a strange name, and shall die with it. But, before I die, I shall put my living bones to use.

"I could not make up my mind, but now something has helped me to decide. The engineer whom you are employing down by the new mill which you are building is one of my victims. I recognized him at once, although he has changed greatly. I do not know whether he remembered me, but I almost believe that he did. He looked at me carelessly and then turned away. It is well that I have had a look at one of my victims. That destroyed the last traces of indolence and the desire to hide myself from the world. I must and will live. The French are coming. They have made all preparations to burn our woods. The little spectacled forest Junker-you know that I dislike him; he still acts, the proud and overbearing corps student, and, besides that, is happily married, has a fine hearty wife and boys like young wolves. I have always avoided him; but I met him to-day and he handed me the French newspaper, in which it is joyfully proclaimed that our woods will soon be in flames. When I read that, I fled. That was enough for me. I am a good shot. If they wish me to, I can single out my man among the enemy and bring him down at the first fire. The little forest Junker has promised to look after my duties as forester. He said that would be the same as helping in the war, as he could not leave home. Let him make a virtue of it if he chooses. My woods are in safe hands, and I can go."

He now requested me to use my influence with my son-in-law, the Colonel, and I faithfully promised that I would.

I asked him whether he had no memento of the mother and the child. He said that he had none.

"And has the child, perhaps, a keepsake from you?"

"I can remember none. But, yes! When I saw it for the last time, I brought it cakes in a satchel on which was embroidery representing a dog holding a bird between his teeth."

My hair stood on end.

"What was the name of your child?"

"Conradine."

"Then all agrees-Martella is your child."

And the man seized my arm as if he would break it, and gave a cry like a felled ox.

After a while, he regained his self-control. We hurried to the village. On the way, he told me that he would now confess to me that he had had a letter from Ernst. He was in Algiers; had entered the army there and had become an officer. He had told me nothing about it, because he had thought it was of no use. Ernst had also given him messages for his betrothed: but he had always kept them to himself. "Spare me all reproaches," he concluded; "I am punished bitterly enough. Oh, if they had only been united! How shall I utter the word 'child,' and how can I listen to the word 'father'?"

When, after leaving the saw-mill, we began to ascend the hill, he called out in a hoarse voice: "It was here, in this spot, that she stepped down from the wagon in the twilight. Here, by this very tree, I heard her voice. It was that of her mother-I could not believe it at the time. Here, by this very tree."

Rothfuss came towards us. "Have you seen her-is she with you?"

"Whom do you mean?"

"She is gone off with Lerz the baker, who has become a sutler. Oh, the damned hound!"

"Who?"

"Martella is gone!"

Rautenkron grasped a young tree by the roadside, and broke it in two; then he sank on his knees. We lifted him up.

"It is right thus. So it should be," he said. "Here, on this very spot-do you remember? – I warned you when your wife went to bring her home. Tell me, wise man, what was that? I heard something in her voice, and did not wish to believe it. Turenne," he said, turning to his dog, "you killed her dog. Be quiet; I told you to do it."

He followed us to the house, but did not utter a word on the way.

We went to her room. She had taken nothing with her but the embroidered satchel, which, before that, had always hung over the mirror; and also Ernst's prize cup. The clothes that she had inherited from my wife she had carefully arranged and placed to one side.

We asked Rothfuss how long it was since she had disappeared.

They had been hunting for her ever since the morning of the day before, but in vain. No sign of where she had gone could be found.

Rautenkron left the room and went out into the garden. He sat there for a long while, holding his rifle between his knees. I begged him to return to the house with me. He was looking on the ground, and did not raise his head. I asked him to give me his rifle. He looked up towards me, and, with a strange smile, said: "Don't be alarmed; I am not such a fool as to shoot myself."

I walked away. A little while afterward, I heard a shot, and hurried out again. Rautenkron sat there, holding his gun with both hands, but his beautiful brown spaniel lay dead at his feet.

When he saw me, he exclaimed:

"Now I am quite alone. I had intended to give Turenne to you, but it is better thus. The beast might have been stupid enough to long for me."

The sound of drums was heard from over the hills. The Colonel arrived with his regiment, and all hurried out to meet him.

And the Englishman stood at the brook, angling.