CHAPTER VI.
In the mean time the ball went on, notwithstanding the absence of this happy couple, and no one seemed to miss anything. But the later it grew the more impatiently did the eyes of the red-bearded Capuchin wander toward the door through which he was expecting the angel of Paradise to enter and announce that a guest in a cowl was standing outside the door and waiting for admission. He racked his brains in the vain effort to imagine what could possibly have detained his lady, who, only a short time before, had expressed such a strong desire to be present at the masquerade; and when it struck eleven, and nothing had appeared, he secretly gave up the affair as lost. As he had made up his mind that the mysterious stranger would in the end reveal herself in all her beauty, and afford him an opportunity to celebrate a great triumph, he naturally felt very much put out at finding that he had been playing a fool's part, and he slunk about as embarrassed and wretched as a wet sparrow.
But his distress proved useless, after all. The intermission that preceded the cotillon had begun, and every one had streamed into the supper-room to eat and drink, when Fridolin, entering the hall with his flaming sword under his arm, nodded to him mysteriously, and whispered that there was some one outside who wished to speak with him. The monk rushed into the hall with most unclerical haste, and was not disappointed. She whom he expected stood before him.
She acknowledged his welcome, but in such a formal tone that he found a good deal of difficulty in stammering out some gallant reproaches for her late arrival. Her chief anxiety seemed to be that her disguise was not sufficient to prevent her from being recognized. When he had somewhat relieved her fears on this score and had, as an additional precaution, arranged her white eyebrows and beard so that they should cover a little more of the delicate face, she asked why no music could be heard from the hall. He explained to her the reason of the pause, and wanted to escort her in without further ceremony. But she insisted upon waiting until the dance should begin again, and begged him to leave her and rejoin the company until that time.
His chivalrous heart would not consent to this, so he staid outside with the beautiful unknown, who had taken possession of the chair at Fridolin's table, and who answered in monosyllables to his neat speeches and appeared to be in a strange state of excitement, and entirely absorbed in her own thoughts.
At length, the first sound of the fiddle inside gave the signal for his release; but not until the trembling of the floor made it apparent that the couples had once more begun the dance, did the muffled figure rise and seize the arm of her companion. Rosenbusch felt that she trembled slightly; he could not imagine what should make her, but he was already too much abashed by her reserve to rally her upon her strange timidity.
The fact that the friar had suddenly associated himself with a colleague did not at first make the sensation he had expected. Then, when the attention of one person after another was drawn to the pair of monks, there was no doubt in the mind of any one as to the identity of the smaller friar, who betrayed the woman both in manner and carriage. The love affair of the battle-painter was too well known not to make every one suspect that the thick white beard, and the bushy eyebrows, concealed the features of the fair Nanny. The fact of her coming so late confirmed this supposition. She had been obliged to wait until her parents were asleep, so that she might steal to the ball undetected. They all wished her hearty joy of her stolen pleasure, and were only surprised--since no one doubted her fondness for dancing--that she did not at once join her companion in a waltz, instead of drawing her cowl still lower over her eyes and walking slowly past the different groups, examining the costumes with a searching glance.
In this fashion the couple had already passed down the whole length of the hall, when this puzzling woman suddenly stood still and dropped her companion's arm. Her movement was so violent that Rosenbusch gazed at her in amazement. He saw that her eyes were fixed intently upon the seats near the window, where Jansen and Julie, and some of the others who did not care to dance, had again taken their places. But the dance had just come to an end, and those who had been seated had risen in order to mingle with the crowd. The blue eyes under the white eyebrows followed them eagerly, and seemed to take no notice of anything else that passed around them. So much so, at all events, that the efforts of the tall Englishman, who wished the decapitated martyr to introduce him to the new monk, might just as well have been addressed to a statue.
"What is the matter, madame?" whispered Rosenbusch. "You have grown very pale; I can see that notwithstanding your cowl. I will lead you to the chairs--you must rest a moment. That noble Venetian over there is my friend Jansen, a splendid sculptor, and the beautiful woman on his arm--"
But she was not listening. Without taking his arm again, she had stepped forward to the empty seat and sunk into a chair.
Rosenbusch stood before her in great embarrassment. He knew less and less what to make of this extraordinary creature.
He was just thinking that he would try and give a humorous turn to the affair, by reminding her that she was in Paradise and not in a convent, when he saw her leap up as if she were set on springs.
She had been frightened by the sound of a deep, angry growl. She turned, trembling from head to foot, and beheld the old dog, who had been sleeping behind the chair, as his custom was, but who now raised himself up, and, wagging his shaggy tail back and forth, fixed a pair of glowing eyes upon the guest.
"Take me away!--take me away!" she whispered to Rosenbusch, and seized his arm. "That furious beast--don't you see how he glares at me? Good Heavens, how frightened I am!"
"Don't be at all alarmed, dear madame; it is only old Homo. Here, in Paradise, where the lion lies down by the lamb--"
She clung convulsively to his sleeve, and drew him away from the windows. But it really did seem as though the strange old animal, who paid no attention whatever to the other figures, took a particular interest in the Capuchin's double.
He followed the couple with stately, dignified step, no matter in which direction they turned, shaking his big ears from time to time and emitting that hoarse growl which, with him, was always a sign of violent excitement.
"For God's sake, free me from this monster!" cried the frightened woman, in a choking voice. "I have an unconquerable horror of all dogs, even when they are gentle. And this one--unless you put him out you will force me to leave the hall."
"Down, Homo!--down, old boy!" said the battle-painter, looking round for Jansen with growing embarrassment, for he did not dare to turn out this old and honored guest of Paradise upon his own responsibility. But the animal seemed no longer to recognize the voice of his friend and house-mate. As Rosenbusch put out his hand in order to take him by the collar and gently conduct him out, a howl burst from his throat, so fierce and threatening, that every one standing near started back in alarm. The familiar sound reached Jansen's ear also.
"What's the matter with the old fellow?" he said, listening. "I must go and see," and with these words he turned away from Julie, who, with Angelica, was just on the point of going in search of the young couple whose disappearance they had at last begun to notice.
The music, which had just begun again, broke off suddenly, for a second howl was heard through the room.
At this moment Jansen reached the group that had gathered about the dog, and called him by name. The animal obediently turned his head toward his master; but, when his victim tried to take advantage of this movement to slip away quickly in the crowd, the dog gave forth a still more angry growl, leaped with a powerful spring after the retreating figure, and caught the end of the gown in his teeth.
"Back, Homo! Come here--back!" cried Jansen, in a voice of command.
But the animal continued to keep his hold. A low cry came from beneath the cowl, and the little hand which was carefully held before the face trembled violently, while the other struggled to tear loose the gown. At this moment, Stephanopulos forced his way through the stupefied crowd of spectators. With a quick movement he seized the furious animal by the throat, with the intention of forcing it back. The dog's teeth let go the gown, but, though a wild howl came from his powerful throat and his eyes turned with a furious glare upon the bold intruder, he succeeded in laying his heavy forepaws on the cord that answered for a girdle, and with such violence that the muffled figure staggered and fell upon the floor. The animal at once laid one of his paws upon the prostrate figure, and, with a loud bark of triumph and violently lashing his tail back and forth, stood by the side of his prey, with an aspect so horrible that even Jansen recoiled from him.
True, it was not this sudden outbreak of fury in his old companion that made him stagger back and stare in horror at the prostrate figure. In her confusion and alarm the stranger had let her cowl fall back, her white beard drop off, and for a few seconds they saw a woman's pale face looking out from the disguise long enough for it to be recognized by Jansen and the young Greek at his side.
"Are you crazy?" cried the latter, excited still more by the sudden discovery. "Why do you stand there like a statue? Drag off this mad beast before an accident happens, or by all the devils--"
Jansen did not move. His face was ashy pale; they could see his teeth clinched tightly behind his parted lips. All around was breathless stillness, broken only by the heavy breathing of the dog.
"Then we must help ourselves as best we can!" cried Stephanopulos. "To hell with this devil's brute!"
Quick as a flash he unsheathed a long dagger that was stuck in his belt, and before any one could interfere he had driven the sharp steel down the wide-opened throat of the old animal.
A frightful howl, stifled the next moment by a stream of blood, and then the powerful animal fell back, and, with a dull rattling in the throat, dropped dead beside the woman in the cowl.
CHAPTER VII.
All this time the two lovers outside in the garden, absorbed in their happiness, and covered warm with Felix's broad Spanish cloak, had heard nothing of the gathering storm within-doors, and had not noticed that the clouds had begun to dissolve in a fine rain. But in a little while the wind began to rise, shaking the soft snow from the branches, and driving the cold drops of rain into their faces.
Even then Irene expressed no desire to be taken back into the house. She would have liked to wander by his side forever, through rain and storm. But he, careful of her health, laughingly insisted upon "bringing his little lamb under cover." "We must take care not to catch cold," he said. "There are certain times when a cold stands very much in the way of lovers. Come, my darling! I feel as if I should like to dance all night long with you. Good Heavens! what work we shall have in making up for lost time!"
She hung on his arm in full submission. But at this moment they heard the dying howl of the old animal, horribly breaking in upon the stillness of the night.
"What is that?" said Felix. "That sounds altogether too serious for any masquerading joke. In the tropics I was used to such nocturnal voices, and slept quietly in spite of them. But here, under this wintry sky--"
He hurried her toward the house. Then they saw a back-door suddenly thrown open, and two muffled figures rush out hastily and run toward a carriage that was standing waiting in the side-street, about thirty steps from the house, just as on the night when the burning picture disappeared.
They could distinguish nothing but the outline of a monk's cowl.
"Rosenbusch!" cried Felix.
But this call merely had the effect of causing the fleeing persons to redouble their speed. The next moment they reached the carriage, and something white gleamed in the darkness, which Felix's keen eye thought it recognized as the fustanella of the young Greek; then the door was slammed-to, and the carriage rolled off into the darkness at a break-neck pace.
The pair gazed after it in amazement.
"What can it mean?" cried Irene.
Felix said nothing, but shook his head and hurried her on toward the door. They found Fridolin at his post, but with eyes that glared so from fright and sudden awakening that they did not stop to ask him any questions, but, throwing off their wet wraps, hastened into the hall.
Here a most startling sight greeted their view.
Jansen was crouched motionless on the floor, holding on his knee the bloody head of the dog, his gaze fixed on the stiff, outstretched limbs of his old friend, whose convulsive twitching marked the last pulsation of his ebbing blood.
Julie was kneeling at his side, taking no heed of her yellow skirts, that were spotted with large stains from the dark pool. Their friends were standing about them, completely stupefied; and even the musicians crept down from the platform, in their grotesque animal costumes, and mixed in among the guests.
At this moment the gaunt figure of Alba, in the shape of their friend Schnetz, stepped out of the awe-struck crowd, advanced to the astonished pair, and, taking them aside, told them all that had passed while they had been out in the garden, pouring out their hearts to one another in utter ignorance of what was going on within. In what connection these puzzling occurrences stood to one another, the lieutenant did not pretend to know. When they recovered from the first shock, and looked about for the author of the whole trouble, they discovered that she had disappeared from the hall with the young Greek.
Rosenbusch then joined them, and Angelica and Elfinger. The battle-painter was plunged in a truly pitiable state of despondency at the tragic end of his adventure. Innocent as he was of it all, he nevertheless persisted in accusing himself of being the author of the murderous affair by introducing this mysterious guest. He gave a detailed account of the way in which he had made her acquaintance, and asserted again and again that she had done absolutely nothing to provoke the dog. But let that be as it would, the mischief had been done; the ball was spoiled, and Jansen had lost his good old comrade.
Felix listened to all this with clouded brow. Then he pushed his way through the crowd, and went up to Jansen. The dog had just drawn his last breath. Jansen sprung to his feet when he felt the hand of his friend on his shoulder. He drew himself up erect, and then raised Julie from her knees, but without uttering a word, while his bright eyes, sunk deep in their sockets, wandered slowly about, as if he were trying to remember where he was.
"Have they gone?" he said, after a long pause.
No one answered. Julie took his hand and spoke gently to him, and he replied by a vacant smile and a nod. Then, with a violent shudder, he roused himself, and strode out of the group that had gathered about the dead animal. He advanced to his friends, and, speaking once more in his usual voice, requested Schnetz to send for a carriage, as he wished to take the dead dog home. Then, with few words, but with a manner that forbade all remonstrances, he entreated them not to be disturbed on his account, and not to leave the ball. He made even Julie promise this, and forced himself to speak quite as usual. After this he took Rosenbusch aside, and conversed with him in a low voice for a considerable time, never lifting his eyes from the floor; finally he shook hands with him, and left the room.
Julie and Felix accompanied him out to the carriage, in which the body of the dog had been already laid. He got in with evident difficulty, and gave the two at parting a hand that was as cold as ice. He did all this as if he were still enveloped in some dream, from which even the presence and sympathy of those most dear to him could not arouse him.
Fridolin had mounted on the box by the side of the driver, and in this fashion they pursued their long drive through the cold, rainy night, and drew up in front of the studio just as the clock was striking twelve. The driver lent them his assistance in lifting the heavy body of the dog out of the carriage, and carrying him in. They laid him down in the little garden behind the house, and, with shovel and pickaxe, dug a deep grave, into which they lowered the huge animal. The driver had gone on his way again, and Jansen stood motionless on the brink of the grave, gazing down on the dark mass that they were leaving there to crumble into dust. But Fridolin took the two artificial roses which had belonged to his angel's dress, and which he still wore behind his ears, and cast them down upon the dead animal.
"It is winter," he said, "and a dark night; and we have nothing fresher. But go and get some sleep, Herr Professor. I will put his bed in order with my spade. And though he was only an animal, perhaps after all we shall see him again at the resurrection; and if there should be a heaven for dogs, Herr Professor, he will go there sooner than many a priest. And why? Because he knew what friendship and kindness meant; and that is what nine men out of ten don't know; and he never treated a poor fellow-man like a dog, which can't be said of everybody. I don't think the good God will object if I offer up a few paternosters for the poor dog's soul."
Jansen nodded in silence, and turned away. Then he went into the house, and stepped into his studio. It was cold as ice in the large room; the wind roared down the chimney, and rattled in the iron stove. Yet for all that the unhappy man could not make up his mind to go back to his lodgings. He threw himself upon the low sofa and spread his cloak over his benumbed limbs. So he lay there perfectly still, and listened to the falling of the rain and the noise made by the spade. His eyes were shut. But for all that he never ceased to see, in the darkness of his own heart, a pale face, only too well known, from which the mask had just fallen, and which, despite its frightened, supplicating look, stared up at him like the head of Medusa.
CHAPTER VIII.
When he started up, late in the morning, after a short sleep, and saw the snow drifting sadly down outside the window, the face at once rose up before him again; and the frightened look of those blue eyes, that he had hoped never to see more, and that now came to begin anew their designs upon his happiness, made him shudder even more than the harsh breath of the winter morning. And yet at first he had difficulty in believing that it had really happened. It was only from his great exhaustion that he realized what a storm he had passed through.
He was surprised himself at the stolid, torpid, icy calmness with which he was able to look back on the frightful scene, as if the apparition of the night, that yesterday made his hair stand on end, had no power over him in broad daylight. He thought about the loss of his faithful old companion too, as something that had happened long ago. But he was pained by the thought that he had let the faithful animal be buried in his masquerade trappings, with the gaudy ribbons and the guitar on his back. He even went so far as to seriously deliberate whether he should not have the grave opened again and cleared of all the tawdry finery. However, he put it off until evening; and when evening came he had much more pressing matters to attend to.
He was firmly resolved to put an end to this condition of affairs; to tear the ever-rankling and festering barb from out the wound, let it cost what it might. How this could best be done he did not know as yet. But upon one point his mind was definitely made up; he owed it to Julie to render a repetition of such scenes impossible.
He left the studio and went into the city. He directed his steps to the hotel where the Russian countess was staying. To his amazement, he learned there that no one had ever heard of this Madame St.-Aubain, which was the name Rosenbusch had given him the preceding evening. The porter did, indeed, remember a person such as Jansen described; the lady spent the whole day with the countess no later than yesterday. But she was not stopping in the hotel, and he had not learned what her name was.
He would speak about it to the countess herself: could he see her for a moment? asked the sculptor.
The porter looked at his watch. It was only nine o'clock; He had orders to admit no one before eleven.
So there was nothing left for him but to be patient, hard as it was.
Wandering about without any definite plan, his heart led him to where Julie lived. But, the moment he saw the house in the distance, he turned back. It was impossible for him to look her in the face again until he could say to her: "It is all over; you have nothing more to fear from my past; the spectre has been sent back among the dead."
He went into the Pinakothek, where at this time of the year and day the large, unheated halls stand empty. He stretched himself on the sofa that stands in the centre of the immense room, and looked over the walls with half closed eyes. The power and warmth of life of these noble pictures acted, without his knowing it, upon his spirits, and his mood continued to grow quieter and more gentle, until at last he fell fast asleep, his hat pushed down so low over his eyes that the attendants and the few visitors took him for an exceedingly studious painter, who made use of his hat-brim to protect him from the reflection of the light from above.
He had to make up for the sleep he had lost in the night; thus three, four hours went by without his waking. At length one of the attendants, to whom the matter began to look rather odd, stepped up and discovered who it was. However, he had altogether too much respect for the artist to disturb his sleep before the time came for closing the gallery. Jansen sprang to his feet, asked what time it was, and was startled to find how many hours he had lost. He left the gallery in great haste, and hurried to the hotel.
The countess was too unwell to receive any visits today, the porter told him.
Jansen shrugged his shoulders, growled out a few unintelligible words, and began to mount the stairs without paying any further heed to this answer. Up-stairs he received a similar reply from the countess's maid, who met him in the corridor.
"Take this card to the countess. I regret to disturb her, but it is absolutely necessary that I speak with her."
The girl took the card, acted as though the name which she read on it was perfectly unknown to her, and then remarked:
"Just at this moment it is really quite impossible for the countess to receive you. The doctor is with her and is renewing the bandages. That always gives her such pain that she is forced to lie perfectly still for two or three hours after the operation, unless she would have convulsions. Perhaps, if you would be good enough to call again toward evening--"
Jansen gave the tricky girl a look that confused even her brazen face.
"I am convinced, my good girl, that you are lying to me in the most cold-blooded manner possible; the doctor is not with your mistress, nor does she need repose. I have a great mind to thrust you aside and quietly make my way in for myself. But, in order that your mistress may be convinced that I am entirely courteous, I will act as though I really believed you, and call again in a few hours. But then--" and he raised his voice a little, in case there should be any one behind the door, listening to the conversation--"then I shall expect that the nerves of the countess will have nothing to say against my requesting a ten minutes' interview. It is now two o'clock. At four I shall take the liberty of knocking again at this door."
"Perhaps it is just as well," he said, as he went down the stairs. "I have eaten nothing since yesterday evening. An empty stomach goes badly with diplomatic negotiations. And I want to keep as cool as possible."
He stepped into a restaurant, hurriedly took a little food, and hastened to get out into the street again. He felt better out in the cold air than anywhere else; he sauntered slowly along, like a promenader in the most beautiful spring weather, baring his head to the storm and letting the flakes of snow fall upon his hair and forehead, so that the people whom he met turned to look after him. As he had a long time to wait before the appointed hour would arrive, he wandered through the town, and at last, by roundabout ways, came back once more to his atelier. Fridolin reported that Miss Julie had been there twice in person, and the second time had written something. The lieutenant and the other gentlemen had also been there to see him, and the baron made him take him to the grave and tell him the whole story. Herr Rosenbusch was the only one who had not yet appeared, and Fräulein Angelica had only shown herself a moment, just to water her flowers, and had gone away again. However, he had made a fire in the studio, and it was warm in among the saints also, although the assistants had taken a holiday on their own account.
Had the professor--for so he obstinately persisted in calling Jansen--any further orders to give?
Jansen shook his head and entered his workshop. He found Julie's note. She begged him, in Italian, which they had been studying together for some months, to release her from the agonizing uncertainty in regard to his mood and in regard to what he intended to do. She was only going out to make a visit to Irene, and then she would stay at home and expect him. The note closed with a few loving words and another earnest request for him to come to her that evening, all of which did him unspeakable good.
But he remained firm in his determination not to go to her until he had cleared up the whole matter.
He sat down on the sofa and had just begun to draw up a small table, in order to write her a few comforting lines, when a quick knock on the door interrupted him.
He was startled to see Frances's nurse come in. This little woman, who had a houseful of children and a head full of cares, seldom visited him--and never without her little charge.
Her black eyes, usually so cheery, began to spy anxiously about in every corner of the studio, the moment she had entered it.
"Is your child here?" she stammered breathlessly.
"With me? No. What made you think so?"
He stepped up to her hastily. "What is the matter, my good woman? Did you send little Frances here?"
"Not here! Oh! Heavens!--but perhaps she may be up-stairs with Fräulein Angelica--without your knowing about it. I will go right up--"
"Fräulein Angelica is not up-stairs; I am all alone in the house. Tell me, for God's sake--"
He stopped suddenly; a horrible suspicion paralyzed his tongue.
The exhausted woman sank down on the pedestal of the great group, and wiped her eyes.
"The child--?" he asked at length, with great difficulty.
She looked up at him with supplicating eyes.
"Don't kill me! I don't know where it is--some one has taken it away--my anxiety drove me here--I have done all I can!--"
She seemed to expect nothing less than that he would strike her dead after hearing this confession.
But, as he stood motionless, she mustered up courage to tell him, in a disconnected way, what had happened. She had gone into the city after dinner, and her old mother had, as usual, taken charge of the children. Immediately after she went out--as if she had only been waiting for that--a strange lady had come to the house.
"Young, with blue eyes?" interrupted the sculptor, with difficulty unclinching his teeth.
No. An elderly lady, not far from fifty, dressed in black and heavily veiled. She asked for Frances, and said she was to bring her to Fräulein Julie, only for half an hour. It was a surprise they were preparing for the father, she said; Fräulein Angelica was going to make a sketch of the child; a drosky was waiting outside the door, and she asked the good grandmamma to put on the child's little cloak, but not to make any other change in its dress. The old woman, as soon as her deafness allowed her to catch the meaning of this story, had thought it rather strange, at first; but the explanation given by the stranger that Fräulein Angelica was prevented from coming and getting the child herself, by a slight cold she had caught on the evening before, had quieted her again. Besides, the child would be brought back in a couple of hours; Fräulein Julie would bring it home herself. As the stranger seemed to be so well acquainted with all the people and circumstances of which she spoke, the old woman could offer no reasonable objection. But the stranger had scarcely left the house when she was filled with an unaccountable anxiety, and had impatiently awaited her daughter's return.
She, however, had been detained in the city longer than she had expected by a number of errands; and, when she finally did return and found that the child had not been brought back, she immediately set out in the greatest anxiety to look for it. But she found no trace either at Julie's (who was herself absent, the old servant Erich said, for she had not come back to her dinner at the usual time), or at Angelica's house. At the latter place they told her that the artist had not gone out until about noon, for she had risen very late; besides, she had found the weather too dark for working. Her last faint hope had been that the child would be found at her father's--and here, too, there was no trace of her!
The woman's eyes filled with tears while telling him the story. She had slipped down from the pedestal and now lay, weeping bitterly, at the feet of the silent man, as if she would disarm his anger by this humble posture.
"Calm yourself!" she heard him say at last. "You are innocent in the whole affair. Believe me; the child is not lost--oh, no! it is in excellent hands. Can a child be safer anywhere than with the mother who bore it?"
The weeping woman raised herself and looked at him inquiringly.
"Yes, yes!" he repeated, laughing bitterly. "You have never been told about that, my good friend; it was very thoughtless of me not to have spoken to you about it the very first thing this morning. My wife has made her appearance again; she gave me a specimen of her acting last night--a benefit performance in Paradise--a short scene, but very effective. And now this is the second act. That the third, in which I am to play too, will be the last, you may be very sure."
"She is here, she has the child, and you know where she is to be found?"
"Not yet. However, I know some one who knows all about it, whom I think I can talk into giving me the necessary information. By-the-way, it must be about the time--almost four o'clock; let us go!"
"Go alone, unless you have particular need of me. My knees can hardly bear me. The anxiety--Oh! let me rest here just for a few moments."
"I'll order a drosky. You mustn't think of walking back such a long distance. We will ride part of the way together."
He called the janitor and sent him out for a carriage. Then he paced with long strides up and down the studio in profound silence, while the woman sank back into a chair, and struggled hard to compose herself.
In the midst of this painful stillness, they all at once heard the voice of the battle-painter in the entry.
He and Felix came in together, and his unsteady step, pale face, and disheveled aspect, showed plainly enough that the horrors of the preceding night were still fresh in his memory. He greeted Jansen with a most depressed mien, and the jokes that he tried to make sounded anything but cheerful. He would not have shown himself in such a wretched condition had he not happened to fall in with something that might possibly be of importance to Jansen.
An hour ago he had crept into the open air for the first time that day, his head still heavy from the wine that he had dolefully poured down his throat the night before, in the hope of drowning his dismay at that murderous tragedy with poor old Homo. As he did not want to meet any of his acquaintances, he took the road that leads out through the gates, visiting, among other places, the cemetery, and feeling quite in a mood to seek a resting-place there himself.
On his return, as he was passing the Sendling gate, he saw a traveling carriage, loaded down with trunks, roll out and turn into the country high-road.
This struck him as being rather a peculiar proceeding at this time of year and in this century of railways; and for that reason he looked pretty closely at the equipage as it drove by. To his great amazement he recognized in one of the ladies, who was just bending forward a little, the stranger of the night before, the mysterious Madame de St.-Aubain, while sitting opposite her on the back seat was no less a person than that Greek Don Juan, Monsieur Stephanopulos. They were talking earnestly with one another, and did not notice him. The lady looked devilish pretty, her face being set off very coquettishly by a black spangled baschlik, and her blue eyes--
"Why, what's the matter with you, Jansen?" he cried, breaking off in alarm, for he saw his friend suddenly grow pale. "I thought I was telling you pleasant news, in reporting that this fatal person, and the murderer of poor Homo, were taking themselves out of your sight--"
"Did you see a child with them?" cried the sculptor, almost beside himself, and turning fiercely upon the innocent narrator.
"A child? It is possible there was a child in the carriage. At least I saw all sorts of wrappings and shawls lying on the other two seats. But, for heaven's sake, my friend--"
"Good! Thank you. I know enough. An hour ago, you say? And on the Sendling post-road? Good! Excuse me, my good woman--I--I must be off. But I must be prepared for all emergencies."
He rushed up to the old wardrobe in the corner, tore open the door with trembling hands, and drew out an old-fashioned pistol, covered with dust and rust.
At this moment he felt Felix's hand on his shoulder.
"What is it?" he said, without turning round.
"Of course I am going with you," said his friend, in a suppressed voice. "As matters stand, I think I know pretty well what the trouble is. What I don't yet know, you can explain to me on the road; but I can never let you start alone on this sad hunt; and, as my blood is cooler than yours, you must let me be the leader. They chose the highway because the telegraph would have cut them off if they had gone by rail, and they have not got much of a start yet. For this reason, I think there can be no doubt but what we shall overtake them if we take horses. Come! The drosky that Fridolin has just ordered will take us in ten minutes to the stable where I hire my horses. Then we will ride by my lodgings, and, if you insist upon it, I will put my revolver in my pocket. That old horse-pistol wouldn't inspire Herr Stephanopulos with any great respect. Do you agree to this, old boy?"
"Let me follow in the carriage," pleaded the little woman. "I shall die of anxiety unless I do, and who knows but what I can be of good service to you. The poor child, and among strange people too, may be made sick by the fright and the cold drive--"
Felix quieted her as well as he could, and his firm, determined bearing had so good an effect that Rosenbusch also promised to keep perfectly quiet until their return, and not alarm either Julie or Angelica by saying anything about the matter. Then Felix pushed his friend, who submitted to his guidance like a child, out of the room, stopped a moment on the stairs to write a word of excuse to Irene, who was expecting him that evening, and then, getting into the drosky, he ordered the driver to drive as fast as possible. Half an hour later the two friends, mounted on fast horses, were spurring along the highroad that runs from the Sendling gate across the broad Isar plain into the mountains beyond.
CHAPTER IX.
The mist of evening hung over the still country. The heavy snow-clouds, piled into huge heaps by the winds, drifted slowly across the dreary sky, now and then letting fall a stray flake. To the right and left of the road, whose deep ruts were filled with a half-frozen slush, the trees stretched up to heaven their black and dripping branches, on which even the crows refused to alight.
In this dismal wintry desert, where, far and wide, no human being could be seen, where no dog barked at the horses, the words seemed to freeze on the lips of the two horsemen. Jansen had informed Felix only of those facts which were positively essential to a knowledge of the case; of his determination to make an end of the affair, and his belief that the abduction of the child was either to be used as a means of extorting some concessions from him, or else that it was a mere trick on the part of the mother to let him feel her power, and to present herself to the world in the character of an abused wife, who sought by this desperate deed to recover a right of which she had long been deprived.
Felix had but little to say in reply.
"Perhaps it is better, after all, that the matter should be brought to a crisis," he thought to himself. "Who knows how long it would have dragged on if he had always been obliged to negotiate from a distance. If he only keeps cool and puts forth all his energy, he will probably effect more now, when it is likely that her conscience troubles her in regard to the farce of yesterday, than he could otherwise have hoped for."
Whereupon he put spurs to his horse, and, in spite of the interest with which his friend's fate inspired him, relapsed into his own thoughts. He had been with Irene for a few hours that morning. The feeling that he brought away with him from those happy hours, the certainty that henceforth his way was clear before him, took complete possession of him, and made him unsusceptible to all the dreariness of this strange ride. In addition to this he was filled with joy at being able to help his friend at such a moment, as well as at being a witness of the favorable change which he believed was about to take place in Jansen's lot. Absorbed in these thoughts, he caught himself whistling a merry tune, and beating time to it with his riding-whip; but, seeing that Jansen suddenly spurred on his horse and rode past him, he broke off, urged his own animal to greater speed, and, after overtaking his friend again, rode along at a sharp trot by the side of his brooding companion.
Upon reaching the next village--where, notwithstanding the early hour, everybody seemed to have gone to bed--they drew up before the tavern, and made inquiries concerning a traveling-carriage that they thought must have passed by the place. The few peasants who were in the guests' room, playing cards with the landlord, came out to the door, and gave it as their opinion that, at this time of year, no other carriage than the doctor's or the priest's one-horse chaise would show itself in those parts. They stood shaking their heads, and looking after the retiring horsemen, as they again dashed forward.
"We shall overtake them in Grossheselohe, at the railway bridge," said Felix. "They can't cross there with the carriage, and will wait for the express train, so as to go on early to-morrow morning. They must have passed, unless Rosenbusch was dreaming. These people in the tavern are so befogged with beer and schnapps, that it is very probable they didn't hear the wheels."
They reached the village of Grossheselohe as one of the church clocks was striking six. A rather lively company was assembled in the village ale-house. The waiter-girl, who stepped to the door upon hearing the approaching sound of horses' hoofs, knew nothing of any carriage bringing strangers from the city. But a drunken hostler, who came staggering out of one of the stalls, muttered some unintelligible words and pointed to the road leading into the wood, though he could not be induced to give any more distinct information.
"Forward!" cried Felix. "We have no other choice, and I know the road through the wood. Undoubtedly, Stephanopulos is also very well acquainted with the country about here. This region was the classic site of the May festivals that the artists used to give. Take my word for it, we shall find our fugitives in the next village."
He urged on his horse, but the heavy darkness now forced them to moderate their speed. Riding at a walk, they plunged into the blackness of the little wood which fringes the high bank of the Isar, and which, in summertime, is the goal of so many weary city-folk. Now, it was so gloomy that even Felix felt a cold shudder pass through his very bones. Down in the deep ravines the water roared, and the wind sighed mournfully through the bare tree-tops. Jansen's animal shied and reared, but his rider sat in the saddle like the stone Commendatore; he had hardly spoken a word for an hour.
Suddenly Felix reined in his horse. "Do you see there?" said he, in a suppressed voice. "I'll wager we have them. It's high time. My horse has gone lame in its right fore-foot."
Across a cleared patch in the wood they saw the village which the artists had used as a rallying-point in the picnics of which Felix had spoken. A house, with a rather high roof, stood out like a silhouette against the gray sky, showing, in its second story, a row of brightly-lighted windows.
"Unless they happen to be celebrating a wedding here, other guests must be in those rooms," said Felix. "Let's ride nearer, and cut across this field; although there's not much fear that they could escape us now, even if we should besiege their hiding-place from the open road."
The horses, giving a low neigh--for they scented a crib of oats--stamped through the slippery mud, and drew up before the fence that separated the inn court-yard from the street.
"We are right," whispered Felix, who stood up in his stirrups in order to look over the fence. "The carriage is standing there in the yard--two people are busy unloading the trunks--the fellow holding the lantern is probably the coachman. Now for it, in God's name!"
He swung himself from his horse, and stepped up to his friend to help him out of the saddle. "Come," he said, patting the streaming horse on the neck. "Whatever you are going to do, do it quickly. You will probably find the whole company together, up-stairs; and, while you are doing what is right up there, I will see to our horses and follow in five minutes. Or do you want me to go up with you at once?"
A deep sigh, the first sign of life that the silent man had yet given, was the only answer. He seemed to have considerable difficulty in getting out of the stirrups, as if his limbs were frozen fast to the saddle. Then he stood for a few moments in a deep reverie, and seemed to be struggling to get the better of a strong aversion, before he could bring himself to enter the house. Felix accompanied him as far as the door.
"Remember to keep down that Berserker blood of yours!" he whispered to him.
Jansen nodded, and pressed his hand as if to ratify the vow. Then he stood still again, raised his hat to wipe his forehead, and then strode quickly across the threshold.
Felix gazed after him with a feeling of painful sympathy. He would much rather have undertaken this difficult mission in his friend's stead. But he knew him too well to dare even to propose such a thing.
So he led the two horses by the bridles, pushed open the gate, and entered the court.
The hostlers, who were busied about the traveling-carriage, rose up and stared in amazement when they heard the sound of horses' hoofs, and saw this young stranger coolly approaching them.
"Good-evening!" he said. "I suppose you still have room in your stable and a few dry blankets. These beasts are as wet as if they had just been drawn out of the water."
No answer. The coachman turned the lantern full in the face of the new-comer, and shrugged his shoulders.
"You'll be no losers for taking good care of my animals," continued Felix. "In the mean time, I think I can find the stable-door for myself."
Without further parley he took the lantern from the coachman's hand--who, in his confusion, was at a loss how to bear himself toward this distinguished-looking gentleman--and proceeded to light his horses to the manger.
At this moment he heard a voice calling across the court, urging the people who were unpacking the carriage to make haste. The owner of this voice stepped out of the back-door; and, seeing the people standing there idle, he marched quickly up to the spot with the intention of giving them a sound rating. Before he could utter a word, however, he started back in confusion--for Felix had also stood still, and raised his lantern so that his figure could be distinctly seen.
Stephanopulos, bare-headed and wrapped in a shawl, stood before him, presenting an appearance that was anything but imposing. However, observing the sarcastic mien of the young baron, he soon succeeded in recovering--outwardly, at least--his usual presence of mind.
"You here!" he cried. "What an unexpected meeting! Really, if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes--"
"Bon soir, mon cher! Can I get quarters here, too?" interrupted Felix. "Yes, you are right; it is I in person. And, for that matter, though you are surprised to see me here in weather like this, which can hardly be said to offer any great inducements for making country excursions, it is really no more surprising than that I should find you. We Northerners are accustomed to winter campaigns. But for one who grew up at the foot of the Parthenon--"
"Are you--alone, or--is some one else--" stammered the unfortunate man.
"Only a good friend of mine, who chanced to have business here, and who will also be rejoiced to see you. Really now, without compliments, we hardly had a right to expect this agreeable meeting so near the city. Where are you going to, sir?" he suddenly raised his voice. "Back into the house? I must earnestly request you to favor me with your company for a short time outside here. Your sense of delicacy ought to teach you that the business which occupies my friend within-doors there will bear no witnesses but those most nearly concerned, and however much you appear to consider yourself as one of the family--"
"Let me alone!" cried the youth, in whose dark eyes an evil light began to gleam. "Why do you stand in my way? What right have you to concern yourself with my affairs?"
"My dear sir," said Felix, dropping the horses' bridles and stepping close up to Stephanopulos, "before all things, don't scream so loud. In your own interest, I advise you not to be too grandiloquent about this affair. The person who is most directly concerned in it might resent any remonstrance on your part less politely than I do. If you care at all to get out of this ridiculous scrape in as respectable a manner as possible--"
"Take care!" cried the other. "You insult me! You shall give me satisfaction for thinking me capable of such a piece of infamy! What! desert an unfortunate woman, who has trusted herself to my protection, in the presence of a man who has always abused her, and has sworn to kill her if she ever comes into his sight again! Let me alone, I tell you! I will--I must go back to the house! I must stand by her--I must--"
"It is very magnanimous of you to want to," interrupted Felix, coldly, as he seized the other's arm with an iron grip. "But, in the mean while, I will take care that you don't. I would propose to you to take a walk in the neighboring wood, in order to cool off your hot blood a little, until the husband has settled matters with his wife. If you should interfere with him, I'm very much afraid he would shoot you without taking any more time for reflection than you did yesterday when you put an end to the poor dog. But I am sorry for you, my good fellow. And for that reason, and also to preserve you for art and for further adventures--"
While saying these words he had been forcing Stephanopulos toward the side where the stable was. There was a door standing open, apparently leading up-stairs to the hay-loft.
"In here!" he said, imperiously, suddenly letting go of the youth's arm and sending him stumbling over the threshold.
The Greek curse that rose to his lips was stifled by the furious passion which blazed up in him.
"Help! help!" he shrieked, beside himself with maddening rage.
But Felix shut the door upon him, quickly turned the key in the lock, and went back to the horses. The prisoner could be heard raging on the other side of the door; a moment afterward his face appeared at the little barred window. A blow of his fist shivered the pane.
"If you don't open on the instant, you scoundrel--you blackguard--"
"I repeat my good advice," said Felix, stepping up close to the window. "Behave yourself quietly and yield to force, unless you want to make your position worse than it is already. What I have just done is for your own good, and your imprisonment will hardly last longer than half an hour. Afterward, of course, I will afford you all so-called satisfaction, with pleasure--as soon my time will allow me."
He lifted his hat a little, stuck the key in his pocket, and resumed his hold of the horses' bridles.
The coachman and the stable-boys, who had looked on at this singular scene in open-mouthed surprise, were so taken aback by his manner, that, without attempting to make any effort in behalf of the prisoner, they officiously hastened to lend assistance in leading the horses into the barn. Felix gave a few directions about how they were to be treated, and threw a thaler to each of the men. Then he took the lantern in his hand again, gave orders that no one should follow him, and strode across the yard to join his friend.