Christine of the hills

“The curtain fell at the great Opera House, and the audience sprang to its feet to summon the performers. Noble and merchant, prince and peasant, grande dame and grisette, raised their voices together in one resounding note of acclamation, which was sustained and carried to the throngs waiting in the Ring without. Women bejewelled and begowned to the limits of splendour, pretty girls in the galleries, courtesans flaunting in the circles, cast their flowers to the stage. The glitter of the gems, the flash of the countless lights, the clamour of the people, the changing lustre of colour—these, excellency, blinded my eyes and deafened my ears. For two hours had I sat in my little box trembling as one with the palsy for the success of Christine. I had seen her come running in to play the part of the gipsy boy; I had heard the thunder of the welcome accorded to one loved long for her work in the Prater, spoken of as a violinist whose fame should soon spread beyond the city. And now these cheers should tell me what the final verdict was.

“The uproar arose, excellency, and one by one the names were called. God of my life! I listened with bursting ears, and when, strong and clear above other cries I heard the people shout for ‘Joseph,’ then, the saints be my witness, my courage left me and my face was wet with my tears. Was she not my daughter? Had she not run to me for bread when she was still a little child? Nay, her triumph was my triumph; and there was no prouder man in Vienna that night than old Andrea of Sebenico. I saw that success like this assured a future for her and a future for me. She would go on from victory to victory; I should follow humbly in her path. She would be rich beyond my dreams; I should be content with the comforts she would provide for me. As for her husband—the scoundrel who would live upon her earnings—was not the little hussar to deal with him? It was even possible that the word was spoken while the people in the theatre were deafening Christine with their plaudits? Oh, surely I did well to shed tears of joy, to dream that the cloak of sorrow had slipped for ever from my shoulders, that the day of my springtime had come back to me!

“I have told you, excellency, that mingled with all my pride in Christine’s triumph was that anxiety to know what steps the boy lover whom they called ‘Zol’ would take to fulfil his threat of the morning. I had seen him sitting in his stall by the orchestra during the first act of the play; yet the success of my little girl was no good news to him, who foresaw in it nothing but a barrier against his love. Gloomily and silently he watched the bewitching gipsy, while the devil’s music filled her fiddle; but towards the end of the opera he left his seat, and I saw him no more. It was not until the following morning that I heard how curiously he had passed his time, for they told me the whole of the terrible story then. As it was told to me, so will I give it to you.

“‘Zol’ went out of the theatre telling himself that, do what he would, Christine would never speak a word of love to him now. Success is often the key-note of change; it can open the heart to kindness or close it to remembrance. When it is a woman’s success, and its handmaidens are the glare of the limelight and the applause of a city, then it may be the enemy both of friendship and of affection. Zol declared that Christine would have a hundred lovers soon, and would be able to laugh at the cruelties of the man Klun. It was a desperate thought to him to remember that others would seek to share the scanty favours which she had bestowed upon him. He resented the suggestion that she should have any other friend. He told himself that it would be good to carry her away from Vienna, and to hide her in some secure place where he might garner her love and her beauty. And in this spirit of complaint he paced the snow-clad streets, heedless of the cold or of the cutting wind, hot with the fever of his impatience.

“Long he walked, returning to the Opernring twice; twice standing upon the river bridge and telling himself how easy it would be to die for Christine. At the last he found himself in the Wallner Strasse, beneath the windows of the child’s apartments; and there the idea came to him to wait for her return from the theatre, and then to repeat that story he had whispered so often. So pleasing was this suggestion that he was in her house almost with the thought, and when the old maidservant had opened to his knock, he passed through at once to Christine’s boudoir.

“‘I have come to congratulate mademoiselle,’ said he; ‘she will be here in a few minutes.’

“‘Ah,’ said the woman, ‘it has been a great night for her, surely! God send that she will have many like it! You were there, sir?’

“‘Certainly; I have just come away.’

“‘You saw her with your own eyes—what good fortune! And she played——’

“‘Divinely,’ said the Lieutenant, anxious to escape the questioning; ‘no prettier woman has ever trodden the boards of the Opera.’ And then he asked: ‘Is anyone in her room now?’

“The old dame raised her finger to her lips warningly.

“‘Stille,’ she whispered, ‘he is there; he came an hour ago; he is waiting for her—you understand? It is good that you are here. He is a devil to-night, and will strike her—see to it.’

“‘You mean her husband?’ asked Zol.

“‘Who should I mean if not him?—yet, husband you call him! Pish, if I were such as you I would know who was husband to her!’

“She leered and grinned meaningly—Zol had given her many a gold piece that winter—and opened the door of the boudoir to him. He went in at once, saying to himself that he would remain as she had asked him to do. And so he found himself face to face with Ugo Klun.

“The Italian was sitting in a low chair by the stove. He was of thin blood, and the cold of Vienna had chilled him to his bones. He had half a bottle of cognac at his side, and a cheroot between his lips. It was plain that the drink had warmed him up to garrulity, and that he had been waiting for Christine in the hope of profiting by her triumph at the full tide of its consummation. When the door of the room opened, he had looked to see her enter, and had half-risen from his chair; but the coming of the little hussar was like a blow to him, and he sank back snarling upon the cushions.

“‘Christé,’ cried he, ‘so it is you, little boy! What the devil are you doing here?’

“Zol ignored the insult, and drew a chair up to the stove, warming his hands in the bright glow of the spreading heat.

“‘Blitzen,’ said he, ‘what a night to be abroad! You were not at the Opera, sir?’

“Klun leant back in his chair and laughed—a drunken laugh, full of self-conceit and impudence.

“‘I—at the Opera—to hear my wife squeal? Diavolo, I have something better to do! But you——’

“‘I—oh, I was there.’

“‘Of course you would be. Where the devil else should I look for you? She did well, you say?’

“‘She did more than well. It is a small part, of course, and her future is not in the theatre. But it was good for her to have the prestige of it; and she promises to become the first violinist in Austria. Few have her dash. Her reception to-night was tremendous.’

“‘Bah!’ said the other, ‘that was her pretty face. It is hard not to applaud a woman when her eyes are bright and her skin is clear, little boy. There is yourself, now, maledetto—your hands were busy, I’ll be bound. And now you come running back to her house at this time of night. But I shall have something to say to that. Do you hear? You have to reckon with me, my little master.’

“He raised himself upon his elbows, and his attempt to assume the possession of heroic virtues which had been outraged was so ridiculous to see that Zol laughed in spite of himself.

“‘Sit still, and don’t be a fool!’ said he; ‘You know well that I come here often at this time. I shall come just when I please. If you have anything to say about it, say it to my groom.’

“Klun sank back upon his cushions again, and helped himself to more brandy.

“‘Macché, Lieutenant,’ said he, ‘I am not the one to quarrel with you about little Christine. All said and done, you have been a good friend to her. What if people talk—is it anything to me? I am a poor man, and come here to serve her interests. She does not love me. I know that. But she has a duty to perform towards me. It is right that I should have money. I do not ask much. You will admit that I cannot starve?’

“Zol regarded him with unutterable contempt.

“‘I admit nothing of the sort,’ said he; ‘a little fasting would do you good. Begin with the brandy, for instance.’

“The Italian swore a heavy oath.

“‘Accidente!’ cried he, ‘say that again——’

“‘A hundred times if you wish it—begin with the brandy.’

“‘Cospetto, you have courage! It is lucky for you that I keep my temper.’

“For a moment he appeared ready to strike the boy, who never moved from his seat nor withdrew his hands from their place before the stove. Presently, however, he remembered that the Lieutenant was the son of Gerold, the banker.

“‘Why should we quarrel?’ he asked, swaying drunkenly in his chair; ‘why should we not understand one another? You are the friend of my wife; very well, be my friend too. You think that I have eyes? Very well. Do not forget at the same time that I can close them. I liked you from the first. I said always, she will come to no harm with him. This was my regard for you. There is no other man in Vienna I would so trust. But I cannot forget that she is a wife to me; I cannot go naked, Herr Lieutenant, because you put fine notions into her head. You understand that. You will not ask me to sleep in the attic when she is supping on the first floor? Oh, no; you are too wise for that. You know well what things are. When a pretty woman laughs, as we say in Italian, a purse complains. I want to see Christine laugh all day. Do you hear that? She shall laugh and my purse shall not complain—hein! Oh, I am an honest man. Per Baccho, Herr Gerold, I look forward to the day when I shall have a nice little store to bank with your father. You will help me to that? I may count upon you?’

“He bent forward with an effort, trying to assume the air of one who has asked a question and means to be answered.

“‘I may count upon you, Herr Lieutenant?’

“Zol for the first time lost his temper.

“‘Oh!’ exclaimed he, ‘you may go to the devil as far as I am concerned. If you would begin your journey now, I should be obliged to you. Your wife will be here in a minute or two. It is a pity that you should see her in that state. Go home now and sleep, and return here to-morrow, if the police will let you.’

“At the word ‘police’ the Italian started up, sobered in a moment.

“‘Maledetto, little lieutenant, what should the police have to do with me?’

“‘You can answer that question best yourself—you and the corporal of Jajce. Should I tell you your own history, as I shall tell it presently—unless you behave yourself—at the War Office here? That would be a waste of time, Herr Klun.’

“Zol spoke without much thought. So little did he fear the Italian that he did not even turn in his seat to watch him. But the sweat of terror was upon the brow of the other, and the devil was at his heart. Springing from his chair, with anger hissing upon his lips, he drew his dagger from his girdle, and gripped the boy.

“‘Come, Herr Lieutenant, you shall tell nothing!’ he cried.

“Zol was up now, for the firelight had shown him the flash of the steel. Turning deftly, he caught the Italian’s arm as it descended, but the blade of the dagger ripped his coat at the shoulder, and he could feel the point of the weapon running like a burning wire over his flesh. In another moment the two men were reeling round the room together, the one fighting with the strength of a madman to release the arm which held his stiletto; the other hugging the Italian to him with all the strong grip of young muscles.

“Zol has told me often, excellency, that his only thought in all the fierce minutes of that terrible struggle was one of little Christine. ‘She will return to find my body here,’ he thought. Quick as he was, sure-footed, and with nerves of steel, he knew that he was no match for the woodlander’s son. Ugo had muscles like ropes of iron; a life lived in the mountains had broadened his chest and trained his limbs so that few even in his own village could stand against him. Had it not been for the months of debauchery which Christine’s money had permitted to him, he would have killed the lad as we should crush a nut beneath our feet. And the drink he had taken robbed his feet of their sureness; there was a mist before his eyes when Zol gripped him; he had a buzz of sounds in his ears and a tightness at the throat as of one suffocating. Twice by a supreme effort he drew back his arm, the knife passing through the lieutenant’s hand and cutting the flesh to the bone; twice that arm was gripped again, and the two men, bound together as by ropes of wire, rolled round the room, knocking the vases from the cabinets, the glasses from the table—even the lamps from their pedestals. Sweat was thick upon the brows of both. They gasped for breath like runners; cries escaped them—the cries of men upon the threshold of death. Round they went, round yet again; now pausing for very truce of weakness; now closing so firmly that their muscles cracked and their bones were almost bending. And then the supreme moment came. God! what a moment to live!

“Convinced that he could not strike the Lieutenant while he was locked in his arms, the Italian bethought him of another plan. Suddenly, and very dexterously, he relaxed his grip. Permitting his muscles to go limp, he slipped to the floor, hacking at the other’s legs as he did so. So surprising and so clever was the movement, that Zol sprang away to avoid the cut of the blade, and in that moment Klun was free. Determined that no false stroke should put him in the clutch of his antagonist again, he stepped back, a great oath upon his lips, and gathered himself together like a beast about to spring.

“‘Holy Virgin, my lieutenant,’ he cried, ‘I am going to slit your throat! You shall tell your tale then, if you have breath. What! you have no fancy for it? Devil’s cub that you are——’

“He sprang forward with the words, and Zol, who had reeled backward against the wall, thought, indeed, that then was the moment when he was about to die. One instant, he said, and the mystery of life would be a mystery to him no more. No longer had he the strength to parry or to grip; he could but wait for the blow and wonder if the agony of death were an agony hard to bear. But that blow never fell, excellency. The Hand of God was over the boy. The holy angels watched him. Even while he told himself—for so were his nerves wrought upon—that Klun had struck him, the Italian lay dead at his feet. A miracle, you say; aye, surely—yet what a miracle!

“For thus it befell: The men in their struggle had pulled up the great mat in that corner of the room where the end came. As Klun sprang upon the boy, he caught his foot in the edge of this mat, and lurched forward heavily upon his face. The upturned knife—upturned because his arm bent under him—was driven by the weight of his body into his own throat. During one long minute the dying man clutched frantically at the floor beneath him. Then, rising upon his knees, and plucking at the dagger he, of a sudden, gave a gurgling cry, and fell stone dead.

“In the same moment Christine stepped from her carriage and ran up the stairs of the house to her room.”