The Lost Manuscript: A Novel

Laura sat at her writing-table supporting her heavy head with both her hands. This had been a trying scene. The speech of her stern father had wounded her deeply. But in his depreciating observations on their neighbor's son there was a certain truth, which had already crept like a hateful spider over the bright leaves of her sympathy. He must go out into the world. Her friends below were thinking of going into foreign parts. Ah! she herself, a poor bird, fluttered her wings in vain, for the fetters on her feet held her back. But he could free himself. She would lose him from her neighborhood, perhaps lose him for ever; but this ought not to hinder her from telling him the truth. She hastily searched among the old sheets; she could find but one ballad, which undoubtedly did not fit the Doctor, inasmuch as it expressed the feelings of a dissolute wanderer. The song was inappropriate, but there was none better. Our ancestors, when not occupied in highway exploits, took little pleasure in travelling. The letter must do the work. She wrote as follows:--

"The summer birds are flying, and man also yearns after the distant lands of his dreams. Do not be angry with the sender of this, for begging you to imbibe something of the spirit of this song. Your home is too narrow for you. Your merits are not appreciated here as they deserve. You are deprived in the quiet house of your parents of those experiences which a man gains when he forms his life by his own qualifications. I well know that your highest task will always be to promote learning by your writings. That you may do everywhere. But do not think it beneath you to influence younger minds by personal intercourse with them, and to participate in the struggles of their generation. Away, Doctor! the unknown bird sings to you the song of the wanderer. With sorrow will your loss be felt by those you leave behind."

About the same hour, Gabriel was sitting in his room brushing the last specks of dust from his best livery which he had spread over a chair. At his feet lay the red dog, licking his paws and giving utterance to an occasional growl. Gabriel looked contemptuously at the dog.

"You are not handsomer, nor better than last winter. Your knavish nature delights in nothing but eating, and flying at the legs of the passers-by. I have never known a dog so much hated, or who deserved it so well; for your only pleasure is to despise all that is respectable. What is your favorite amusement? When it has rained and a ray of sun attracts people to walk in the wood, you lurk on the steps; and when a young girl appears clad in her light summer dress, then you leap like a frog into the puddle that lies before her, and spatter her dress all over, and I have to fetch a cab to take her home. What did the strolling cigar-dealer do yesterday to provoke you. His chest was standing on the bench in Mr. Hummel's garden, and the prospect of a bargain was certain. The cigar-man went a few steps from his chest to speak to an acquaintance, and you, miscreant, made a spring at the bread and butter lying on the chest, and came with all fours on the glass. It broke, and the splinters mixed With the cigars; you trampled them altogether into a powder, and then returned to the house. You, monster, caused your master to deal roughly with the trader when he complained of you, and the man packed up his wares and went away from our house with a curse on his lips. On what nocturnal excursion have you been since then? No human eye has seen you."

He bent down towards the dog.

"So this time it has gone into your flesh. I am glad to see you can injure yourself as well as others."

Gabriel examined the dog's paw and extracted a glass splinter. The dog looked at him and whined.

"If I only knew," continued Gabriel, shaking his head, "what pleases the dog in me. Is it the bones, or perhaps some roguish trait of mine that amuses him? He hates the whole world, and even snarls at his master; but he comes to visit me and behaves himself like a worthy companion. And he is still more crazy about my master. I do not believe that the Rector knows much of Spitehahn. But whenever this fiend sees my Professor, he peeps at him slyly from under his shaggy eyebrows, and does his best to wag his tuft of a tail. And when my master goes to the University, he runs after him like a lamb behind its mother. How comes it that this black soul attaches itself to the Professor? What does he want with our learning? They do not believe in you anyhow, Spitehahn."

He looked round suspiciously and hastily donned his coat. Arrayed in his Sunday attire he left the house. The Hahn family were not at home, for Dorchen was looking out of the dressing-room window. She laughed and nodded. Gabriel took courage, and stepped into the enemies' hall. The door of the room opened. Dorchen stood on the threshold curtsying, and Gabriel, holding the handle of the door, began, solemnly:

"It would be much more pleasant for me if I could have the pleasure of accompanying you in your walk to-day."

Dorchen replied, twitching at her apron:

"I have got to stay here to mind the house, but that need not prevent you from going."

"I should then take ho pleasure in it," replied Gabriel, bowing, "for I should be always thinking of you, and I had much rather be with you here than only think of you in the open air. If, therefore, you would allow me to stay here a little while--?"

"Why, come in, of course, Gabriel."

"Only to the threshold," said Gabriel, advancing, still holding the open door. "I only wanted to say that the number of which you lately dreamt is not to be found at any of the offices. I have, therefore, taken another, and have had it drawn by a little beggar lad, as that brings good luck. I shall be so pleased if you will play this number with me. It is quite a sum, for it is a whole eighth of a ticket."

"But that will be no good sign," said Dorchen, with pretty embarrassment.

"Why not, Fräulein? It was a real beggar-boy."

"No, I mean when two play together who love one another."

"Dear Dorchen!" cried Gabriel, approaching nearer and seizing her hand.

A hollow gurgle interrupted the conversation. Dorchen drew back from him terrified.

"It was a ghost," she cried.

"That is impossible," said Gabriel, consolingly: "for, first, it is day-time; secondly, it is in a new house; and, thirdly, spirits generally do not make such a noise. It was something in the street."

"Your being here is a real comfort to me," exclaimed the timid Dorchen. "It is fearful to be alone in a large house."

"To be together in a small house is particularly jolly," cried Gabriel, boldly. "Ah, Dorchen! if we could venture to think of it."

Again a slight rumble was heard.

"There must be something here," cried Dorchen. "I am so alarmed!"

She sprang away from him to the middle of the room. Gabriel took a yard measure, and looked under the furniture.

"So you are there, are you?" he cried, angrily, poking with the yard measure under the sofa.

Spitehahn leaped forth with a bark on to the nearest chair, from the chair on to the console, on which the clock stood; he knocked down the clock, and dashed through the half-opened door.

It was the parlor clock and a wedding present. Mr. Hahn wound it up every evening before he went to bed; it had two alabaster pillars with gilded capitals; the rest was of American wood, and represented a triumphal arch. Now the treasure lay in ruins, the pillars shattered, the woad broken, and the dial split. In the opened works a single wheel whirled with fearful rapidity, all the rest was motionless. Dorchen stood dismayed before the fragments, and wrung her hands.

"The monster," groaned Gabriel, occupying himself in vain with the shattered work of art, and endeavoring with no better result to comfort the poor maiden, who trembled before the terrors of the ensuing hour.

"I had a foreboding," cried Mr. Hahn, on his return home, "that something would happen to-day. I forgot yesterday, for the first time, to wind up the clock. But now my patience is at an end; there will be war to the knife between him over the way and me." He approached the sobbing maid threateningly. "Bear witness to the truth," he cried out; "the court will demand your testimony. Do not seek safety in hypocrisy and lies. Was it the dog, or was it you?"

Dorchen dramatically related the whole transgression of Spitehahn; she poked under the sofa, as if she could draw the dog out bodily; she confessed, weepingly, to the open door, and explained Gabriel's presence as owing to an inquiry he had made of her.

"Unfortunate one," cried the master of the house, "I see your embarrassment: it was yourself; your conscience pricks you. How can you show that the dog was under the sofa? On your peril, I demand a tangible evidence."

"Here it is," cried Dorchen, still sobbing, and pointing in tragic attitude with her hand to the ground.

There certainly was an indubitable proof under the sofa, although not strictly tangible. The dog had left behind him as sure a confirmation as if he had impressed his seal on the ground.

Now, Mrs. Hahn indignantly gave the orders which became a housewife under such circumstances.

"Do not attempt it," cried Mr. Hahn; "away with towels and cloths; this shall remain."

"But, Andreas," exclaimed his wife.

"This shall remain, I say; it must be acknowledged and certified to. Bring Mr. Ruddy immediately, and his wife, and whatever witnesses you can find on the street."

The witnesses came, and, standing round, examined the place of the evil deed; but Mr. Hahn hastened to his writing-table, and wrote a strong letter to Mr. Hummel, in which he related the misdeed, and threateningly demanded compensation. This letter Mr. Ruddy carried off to Mr. Hummel, with a board on which were laid the ruins of the clock.

Hummel read the letter carefully, and threw it on the table.

"I congratulate your master upon his new undertaking for the summer," he said, coldly. "Carry the debris back again; I have no answer for such nonsense. Some people will make fools of themselves."

The following day a judicial complaint again raised its Medusa's head between the two houses. This time even Mrs. Hahn was deeply incensed; and when she, shortly after, met Laura on the street, she turned her good-humored face to the other side, to avoid greeting the daughter of the enemy.

Laura received the Doctor's answer to her letter. In a pretty poem the happiness of the parental house was extolled, and he spoke of his great delight in his neighbor's charming daughter, whom the poet saw in the garden among her flowers, whenever he looked over the high hedge. He further added: "The advice which you express so sincerely in your lines has found an echo in me. I know what is lacking in my life. My learning makes it impossible for me to find recognition in wider circles, an honor, which the friends of a learned man desire for him more eagerly than he himself does; it also makes it difficult for me to adopt the academical course to which I have now a call in foreign parts. But the nature of my studies takes from me all hope that any outward results can ever overcome the hindrances which oppose themselves to the secret wishes of my soul."

"Poor Fritz!" said Laura; "and yet poorer me! Why must he give up all hope because he studies Sanscrit? It is not courage that is wanting to these learned men, as father says, but passion. Like the old gods about whom you write, you have no human substance, and no blood in your veins. A few sparks are occasionally kindled up in your life and one hopes they may light up into a mighty flame; but immediately it is all smothered and extinguished by prudent consideration." She rose suddenly. "Ah! if one could but lay hold of Fritz by the hair and cast him into the wildest tumult, through which he would have to fight his way bloodily, defy my father, and hazard a great deal, in order to win what he in his gentle way says he desires for himself! Away with this quiet, learned atmosphere: it makes those who breathe it contemptible! Their strongest excitement is a sorrowful shrug of the shoulders over other mortals or themselves."

Thus did the passionate Laura chafe in her attic-room, and again was her paper moistened by bitter tears, as she sought consolation in heroic verses, and called upon the foreign gods of the Doctor to take the field against the pranks of Spitehahn.

The peace was disturbed not only for the neighbors of the Park street, but also for the young Prince, at whose fête the trouble had begun.

The Prince was detained some weeks from the city. After his return, he lived in the quiet retirement that the duties of mourning imposed upon him. Lectures in his room were again resumed, but his place at Ilse's tea-table remained empty.

On the day when the University prizes were distributed, the students made a great torchlight procession to their Rector's house. The flaming lights waved in the old streets; the fanfares resounded, in the midst of which the lusty voices of the singing students might be heard; gables and balconies were lighted in colored splendor; the marshals swung their weapons gaily, and the torch-bearers scattered the sparks among the thronging crowds of spectators. The procession turned into the street towards the valley; it stopped before the house of Mr. Hummel. Again there was music and singing; a deputation solemnly crossed the threshold. Hummel looked proudly on the long stream of red lights which flickered about and lighted up his house. The whole honor was intended for his house alone, though he could not prevent the glare and smoke from illuminating the enemies' roof, also.

Upstairs some of the rector's most intimate friends were assembled; he received the leaders of the students in his room, and there were speeches and replies. While those assembled were crowding nearer to listen to the speech-making, the door of Ilse's room gently opened, and the Prince entered. Ilse hastened to meet him, but he began, without greeting:

"I have come to-day to bid you farewell. What I foresaw has happened. I have received orders to return to my father. To-morrow I and my attendant will take formal leave of the Rector and yourself, but I wished first to see you for a moment; and, now that I stand before you, I cannot express the feelings that prompted me to come. I thank you for all your kindness. I beg of you not to forget me. It is you who have made the city so dear to me. It is you who make it hard for me to go away."

He spoke these words so softly that it seemed only as if a breath had passed into Ilse's ear; and he did not await her answer, but left the room as quickly as he came into it.

Outside, in the open place by the common, the students threw their torches in a great heap; the red flame rose high in the air, and the gray smoke encircled the tops of the trees; it rolled over the houses and crept through the open windows, and stifled the breath. The flame became lower, and a thin smoke ascended from the dying embers. It had been a rapid, brilliant glow, a fleeting fire, now extinguished, and only smoke and ashes remained. But Ilse was still standing by her window, and looking sorrowfully out upon the empty place.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE DRAMA.

"He was a tyrant," exclaimed Laura, "and she was right not to obey him."

"He did his duty harshly, and she also," replied Ilse.

"He was a cross-grained, narrow-minded fellow, who was at last humbled; but she was a noble heroine, who cast from her all that was most dear on earth in order to fulfill her highest obligations," said Laura.

"He acted under the impulse of his nature, as she did according to hers. Hers was the stronger character, and she went victoriously to death. The burden of his deed crushed him during life," rejoined Ilse.

The characters which the ladies were discussing were Antigone and Creon.

The Professor had one autumn evening laid the tragedies of Sophocles on his wife's table. "It is time that you should learn to appreciate the greatest poets of antiquity in their works." He read them aloud and explained them. The lofty forms of the Attic stage hovered in the peaceful atmosphere of the German home. Ilse heard around her curses and heart-breaking lamentations, she saw a dark fatality impending over men of the noblest feeling and iron will; she felt the storm of passion raging in powerful souls, and heard, amidst the cry of revenge and despair, the soft chords of soul-stirring pathos, sounding with irresistible magic.

The time had indeed come when Ilse could comprehend and enter into the feelings and fate of others than herself.

The bright rays of the midday sun do not always shine upon the paths of man. Not with the eye alone does he seek his way amid the shadows of night, but he hearkens, too, to the secret voices within his breast. From the battle of clashing duties, from the irresistible impulse of passion, it is not with most men a careful thought or a wise adage that saves or ruins; it is the quick resolve which breaks forth from within like an uncontrollable impulse of nature and which is yet produced by the compulsion of their whole past lives--by all that man knows and believes, by all that he has suffered and done. What forces us to the good or the bad in the sombre hours of trial, people call character, and the changing steps of the wayfarer through life as he seeks his way amid difficulty and danger, the spectator at the play calls dramatic movement.

He only who has wandered amid the flitting shadows of night, and has seriously listened to the secret admonitions of his inmost soul, can fully understand the spirit of others who, in a similar position, have sought to extricate themselves from an intricate labyrinth, and have found safety or met destruction.

Ilse, too, had experienced hours of fleeting terrors; she also had trembled as to whether she had pursued the right path.

The seventh tragedy of the Greek poet had been read; the boldest representation of bitter passion and bloody revenge. Ilse sat mute and horrified at the outbreak of fearful hatred from the heart of Electra. Then her husband, in order to recall her to less anxious thoughts, began: "Now you have heard all that remains to us of the art and power of a wonderful poetical mind, and you must tell me which of his characters has most attracted you."

"If you mean that in which the power of his poetry has most impressed me, it is always the newest form which has appeared to me the greatest, and today it is the monstrous conception of Electra. But if you ask which has pleased me most--"

"The gentle Ismene?" interrupted the Professor, laughing.

Ilse shook her head. "No, it is the valiant son of Achilles. At first he was tempted to yield to the cunning counsel of his confederate, and do violence to an unfortunate fellow-creature; but after a long struggle his noble nature conquers: he sees that it will be wrong, and he asserts his manhood by refusing."

The Professor closed the book, and looked with astonishment at his wife.

"There is," continued Ilse, "in the greatest characters of your Greek poet a stern rigidity that frightens me. Something is wanting in all to make them like us; they do not doubt as we do, nor struggle; even when they do right, their greatness consists in their immovable determination to do something fearful, or rigid persistence in stemming a terrible fate. But while we expect that the strong man shall act powerfully, according to his nature, either for good or evil, he does not gain our full human sympathy, unless we have the certainty that he experiences an inward struggle such as we may ourselves feel."

"Such as we may ourselves feel?" asked the Professor, seriously, laying aside the book. "How do you come by this experience? Have you, Ilse, some secret from your husband?"

Ilse rose and looked at him with dismay.

But the Professor continued, cheerfully: "I will first tell you why I ask, and what I would like to know from you. When I brought you from your country-home you were, in spite of your deep German feeling, in many respects just such as we like to picture to ourselves Nausicaa and Penelope. You freely received impressions from the world around you; you stood sure and strong in a firmly-bound sphere of right and duty; with childlike trust you gathered from the moral habits of your circle, and from Holy Scripture, your standard of judgment and conduct. Your love for me, and contact with other souls, and the insight into a new sphere of knowledge, awakened in your heart passionate vibrations; uncertainty came, and then doubt; new thoughts struggled against old impressions, the demands of your new life against the tenor of your maiden years. You were for months more unhappy than I had any idea of. But now, when I have been rejoicing in your cheerful repose of mind, I find you have acquired a knowledge of human nature that astonishes me. I have often lately seen, with secret pleasure, how warmly you have sympathized with, and how mildly you have judged, the characters of the drama. I had expected that their hard and monstrous fate would have been repulsive to you, and that you would have felt rapid transitions from tenderness to aversion. But you have sympathy with the dark forms as well as with the bright, as if your soul had begun to anticipate that in one's own life, good and evil, blessing and curse, might be associated, and as if you had yourself experienced that man has not to follow an outward moral law alone, however exalted its origin, but that he may at some period be compelled to seek for some other law in the depths of his own soul. But such an insight men can only attain when they themselves experience danger and trouble. It is improbable that this should have been the case with you, unless you have gone through some experience to which I have been a stranger. I do not wish to urge your confidence; I know what trust I can repose in you; but if you think fit, I would gladly know what has given rise to this sensitive feeling for the secret struggles of men who are hurried along by a tragic fate."

Ilse seized him by the hand and drew him into her room. "It was on this spot," she exclaimed, "a stranger asked me whether he should expose himself to the danger of death for the sake of his honor, or whether he should expose another in his place. I had given him a right to ask such a question, for I had before spoken to him of his life with greater frankness than was prudent for a careful woman. I stood and struggled against the question that he put to me, but I could not refuse to answer; and, Felix, to tell you the truth, I did not wish to do so. I gave him counsel which might have brought him to a bloody end. I gave him that advice secretly, and I became entangled in a fatal web from which I could not extricate myself. I thought of you, but I did not dare to tell you, as you must either have been unfaithful to the duties of your office, or you must for ever have wounded the honorable feelings of another. I questioned our holy teachings: they told me only that my advice was sinful. I was unhappy, Felix, that I had come into this position, but still more unhappy that neither you nor the teachings of my faith could help me out of it. It was no merit of mine that things turned out better than I feared they would. Since that I have known, Felix, what struggles of conscience are; now you know the only secret that I have ever had from you. If I did wrong, judge me mildly, for by all that is sacred I could not have done otherwise."

"And the Prince?" asked her husband, softly.

"He is a good and gentle soul, an immature man, while I was your wife. With him there was no doubt and no struggle."

"I know enough, you earnest, high-minded woman," said the Professor, "I see that, as against your knowledge of life, I can now pack up my books. For of what value is the teaching of books, however good they may be, in comparison to that of life. A foolish student's duel, in which you were the invisible adviser, has done more, perhaps to form your mind, than my prudent words would have done in the course of years. Be of good courage. Lady Ilse of Bielstein; whatever fate may still await us, I know now that you are fitted for inward struggles, and we need not be solicitous about dangers from without. For, however much we human beings may be troubled and agitated here on earth, he who has once learnt to know himself so well that he is able to read the secret writing of other souls, is well protected against the temptations of the world."

What the German scholar said as he now so warmly clasped his wife in his arms was not amiss, only it is a pity that we have no certainty of reading the secrets of other souls; and it is a pity that the greatest knowledge of the secret writing in the souls of others cannot serve us in warding off the storms of our own passions.

The Chamberlain, who now acted as marshal to the Hereditary Prince, was holding a conference with his father upon the concerns of his office. Among other things there was also the question of promoting Krüger, of butter-machine fame, to higher honors and, what was of no less importance, to the full salary due the valet of an Hereditary Prince. Contrary to expectations the Sovereign was ready to agree to his proposals, and the Chamberlain, pleased at the gracious humor of his master, was about to take leave, when the Sovereign stopped him by the kind remark, "Your sister Malwine, looks ill; does she dance too much? You should take care of her delicate health; nothing would be more injurious to such a constitution than an early marriage. I hope to see her pleasant countenance at Court for a long time yet."

Now Fräulein Malwine was secretly betrothed to one of the Sovereign's officers; it was known at Court and in the city, but the betrothed were poor, and the consent of the Sovereign was necessary for their union. In order to obtain this it was advisable to await a favorable opportunity. Therefore the Chamberlain was alarmed at his master's words; he perceived a secret threat in them, and while he thanked him for his gracious sympathy, his face betrayed his dismay.

After the Sovereign, by this short turn of the peg, had tuned the strings of his instrument, he continued, with indifference: "If you have a quarter of an hour to spare, I wish you to accompany me into the cabinet of antiquities."

They passed through corridors and halls into a distant part of the castle, where, on an upper floor, a large collection of old coins, carved stones, and other minor relics of Greek and Roman times, were arranged. Many generations of rulers had contributed to it, but the greatest part had been brought by the Sovereign himself when returning from his travels. He had, in former years, taken great interest in the arrangement of these things, and spent large sums in purchasing others; but gradually this fancy had passed off, and for years the feather brush of the curator had only removed the dust for occasional strangers who had happened accidentally to hear of this almost unknown collection, and had honored it with a visit.

The Chamberlain, therefore accompanied his master with the feeling that this unusual idea signified something; and he felt a gloomy anticipation that what was impending boded no good. The Sovereign returned with a nod the low obeisance of the dilapidated curator; he passed in review the long rows of rooms, had some cases opened for him, took in his hand the written catalogue, and examined carefully the gold coins of Alexander the Great and his successors, and inspected a collection of old glass vessels and vases, in which the artistic work of the ancient glass-cutters was particularly striking. Then he asked for the strangers' book, in which the names of the visitors were recorded. After he had sent the man away with a commission, he began, to his attendant: "The collection is less seen that it deserves; I have long thought of having it made better known and more useful to men of learning, by a better arrangement and a good catalogue. It has been one of the little pleasures of my life; I have learnt much by it, and it has at times banished annoyances from my mind. Do you know of any one who would be fitted to undertake the management of a work so important and exacting?"

The Chamberlain bethought himself, but no one occurred to him.

"I should prefer a stranger," continued the Sovereign. "That will give rise to a passing and unembarrassed connection. He must of course be learned and have good guarantees of character."

The Chamberlain named several connoiseurs from other capitals. The Sovereign looked at him keenly, and shook his head. "Think it over," he repeated; "perhaps some one will occur to you."

The examination continued. An antique vase interested the Sovereign by reminding him of how he had obtained it. A Roman woman, of great beauty and commanding figure, had suddenly confronted him and offered it to him with such a distinguished manner, that he, as he laughingly expressed it, was so surprised by the unusual demeanor of the woman, and her sonorous voice, that he paid her more than she asked.

No one yet occurred to the Chamberlain.

On his way back to his apartments the Sovereign remained standing in one of the spacious but lonely halls and asked the Chamberlain, "Has it not occurred to you that Scarletti dresses badly?"

The Chamberlain dissented, for the actress mentioned was supposed to be in favor.

"Yesterday evening she carried an immense bouquet. To which of our young men is this ungraceful attention to be ascribed?"

Again the Chamberlain was astounded.

"As you are disposed to know nothing to-day," continued the Sovereign, in a sharp tone, "I must tell you that I should be sorry to see the Hereditary Prince having any intercourse whatever with the ladies of the theatre. He is not old enough to carry on such connections with the necessary reserve; and the vanity of these ladies will bring every favor to public notice."

The Chamberlain affirmed, upon his honor, that he knew nothing of these civilities of the Hereditary Prince, and that, even if the assumption of his gracious master was well founded, it could only have been a passing idea of the Prince that had occasioned this gift. "Your Highness will be convinced that I would not lend a hand to anything of this kind."

"But I do not choose that you should close your eyes to it," continued the Sovereign, bitterly; "you stood in the box behind the Hereditary Prince, and you must have seen the coquettish look of admiration which she cast upon him. The present was probably sent by the new valet; let him know that in my service one does not carry two faces under one hood. But I require of you," he continued, more calmly, "that you should redouble your vigilance. What occupies him now?"

"He attends regularly the small evening parties of the Princess."

"And in the day?" added the Sovereign, continuing the examination.

"As your Highness knows, he is fond of music; he plays duets with the music-master."

"What does he read?"

The Chamberlain named some French books. "May I be allowed humbly to make a proposal? It would, in every point of view, be useful to his Highness if he had the pleasure of devising or arranging something--perhaps the laying out of a park, or the management of a farm. I venture to suggest that a similar occupation has been found advantageous to young princes at other courts. Perhaps one of your Highness's castles could be adapted for such a purpose."

"And the Hereditary Prince and Mr. von Weidegg would keep their own court, and remain many months in the year far from ours, at their villa," replied the Sovereign.

"I assure your Highness that I never thought of such a thing," answered the Chamberlain, offended.

"I do not blame you," replied the Sovereign, with cutting courtesy. "Consideration for my coffers forbids my assenting to your proposal; but I shall think of it. It is a disappointment to me that the Prince has not learned to take an interest in anything during his stay at the University. Has he had no personal relations during that time that may have given some zest to his life?"

"He took great pleasure in the circle of Professor Werner," replied the good Chamberlain, hesitatingly.

"I hope he preserves a grateful recollection of his teacher."

"He speaks with great interest of him and his family," rejoined the Chamberlain.

"It is well," concluded the Sovereign. "I will take into consideration the question of agricultural occupation; and do not forget to think a little concerning my collection."

This new demand could no longer be withstood by the Chamberlain; he was silent for some minutes, inwardly struggling, while the Sovereign moved on with his head turned towards him, like one who waits for something decisive.

"I do not know that I can propose any one better for the purpose than Professor Werner himself," said the Chamberlain, at last.

The Sovereign again stopped. "You consider him fitted for the work?"

"With respect to his scientific capabilities I naturally can form no judgment," replied the Chamberlain, cautiously.

Irritated by this cowardly attempt to draw back, the Sovereign asked with emphasis, "Would he undertake such a charge?"

"He has a very distinguished position at the University, and is happily married; and he would, undoubtedly, not like to leave his present position for any length of time."

"Perhaps that may be arranged," rejoined the Sovereign. "Werner, then, is the man. At a short interview I accidentally had with him he made a good impression on me. Do not forget to remind me this evening that the archives at Bielstein are to be searched."

Thus did a father exert himself for the benefit of his son.

The Chamberlain reminded his lord that evening that there had been a question of an investigation in the archives of Bielstein, and the sovereign thanked him for it. The following morning orders were given through the Council to the keepers of the records and members of other branches of the Court and State administration, to seek out and send all records of a certain age that had reference to the castle of Bielstein and monastery of Rossau. This order occasioned a great raising of dust, and five large leather sacks were filled with records and old papers. The collection was sent to the Professor; and in a letter the Sovereign expressed his thanks for the attentions which the Professor had shown the Hereditary Prince. He added that, remembering a former conversation, he sent for his inspection all that, in a cursory search, could be found concerning a place in which he took an interest.

This letter gave cause for serious consideration to two inquiring minds. When the dubious report of the student concerning an existing chest had disturbed the peace of the house, the friends had again turned their attention to the inventory of the deceased Bachhuber, and had once more pondered over every word of it: "In a hollow and dry place, LOCO CAVO ET SICCO." The word place, locus, occasioned much thought; but they could come to no certainty about it. "Of the house of Bielstein, domus Bielsteyn!"--here the expression house, domus, was very remarkable. Did it mean that the manuscript lay concealed in the dwelling house itself, or was the word house used in the obsolete meaning of estate or property? The Doctor contended for the dwelling-house, the Professor for the estate. Much depended upon this; for if domus signified estate, the manuscript might be concealed in any part of the property. "I have deposited it all, hæc omnia deposui!" The word all, omnia, was very comforting; for it gave the certainty that the deceased Bachhüber had not left the manuscript behind. But the depositing was a matter of some doubt. Did the word betoken that the manuscript was deposited only in Bielstein, and thus given over and entrusted, so to speak, to the inhabitants?--or had the writer chosen the expression because he wished to signify the interring and blocking it up in some deep place? To us laymen in the Latin tongue, it appears clear indeed that Bachhuber was very glad to have a Latin vocabulary in which to signify the concealment of his treasure; however, the feeling of the learned men was otherwise. Finally, the friends agreed in taking the view, that, in spite of this account, the walls of the house were worthy of future attention. The hollow places which the Doctor had registered might be examined; the cupboard in the wall in Ilse's bedroom appeared a place not to be despised. The Professor, therefore, determined to obtain some certainty on that point during the next vacation. The business of the Rector had only allowed a short visit to the castle this time; but the Professor would be aided by his position in the family, which opened Ilse's room and cupboard to him.

It was a fine August day; the father was riding about in his fields, and Ilse sitting with Clara in household consultation, when an uproar was raised in the kitchen, and the housekeeper, quite beside herself, rushed into the sitting-room, exclaiming: "There are ghosts around again!" There was, in fact, a loud knocking in the house, and the maids congregated in the hall. The noise came from the upper story; so Ilse hastened upstairs, and, on opening the door to her room, found the Professor, in his shirt sleeves, working in the cupboard with various tools he had obtained from the carpenter. He received her, laughing, and called out, to tranquilize her, that he was nailing the cupboard boards tighter. This was right, but he had first broken through them. The manuscript was not there, and nothing was to be seen but an empty space and a few bits of mortar. There was, however, one inexplicable thing, which might be a trace of the manuscript--a small bit of blue cloth rag; how that had come into the wall was a riddle. On further examination, it appeared that it was not colored with indigo; therefore, probably, it had existed previous to the introduction of that color into civilization. Whether a mouse, in her motherly care, had deposited it there as an ornament to her bed, and at the same time for food in a desperate case of necessity, could not be ascertained, as at present these folk seem to have no traditions of the past, and the individual had probably been eaten some centuries ago by an ancestor of one of our cats.

This discovery might have given confidence to the friends, for there were now two places where the treasure was not. But there is much that is illogical in the nature of men. Even the Doctor inclined now to the Professor's opinion, that the manuscript was perhaps not concealed in the house; nay, that it might even be at a distance from the place.

Such was the state of the matter when the Sovereign's packet arrived. The friends were occupied many hours with the trunks, and examined the records carefully. They found much that would be valuable for the history of the district, but nothing that led to the manuscript. At last, the Professor raised from the bottom of one of the trunks a thick bundle of reports, on sheets sewed together, which had been sent by the officials of Bielstein to the Government. Among them was the writing of a deputy-bailiff of the last century, in which he notified that he was hastening, in those times of suspense and danger, commanded by high authority, to convey to the royal country residence, Solitude, the chestful of hunting implements and old books which had up to that time been in his custody.

The writer of the letter had undoubtedly not foreseen what an excitement his faded scroll would produce in a later generation.

"This is the student's chest," cried the Professor, the color rising to his cheeks, while he held out the document to his friend.

"Remarkable!" said the Doctor. "It is impossible that this coincidence can be accidental."

"The student's chest was no will o' the wisp," cried the Professor to his wife, in her room; "here is the confirmation."

"Where is the chest?" inquired Ilse, skeptically.

"That is just what we do not know," replied the Professor, laughing. "Here is a new scent, indistinct, and in a new direction; but it may lead shortly to the vanished parchment." The friends hastened back eagerly to the bundle of records. "Old books!" exclaimed the Doctor; "the house was a hunting castle; a generation before this letter was written, the estate came first into the possession of this princely family; it is not probable that they themselves, in their short hunting visits, should have collected books there."

"Old books!" exclaimed also the Professor; "it is possible that hunting journals and accounts may be meant; but it is not impossible that the chest may also contain some few things of the property of the monastery. Ilse, where is the old castle belonging to your Sovereign called Solitude?"

Ilse knew nothing of such a castle.

"It is a fortunate coincidence that the Sovereign himself may give us an opportunity of obtaining more accurate information."

"Ah, you poor men!" said Ilse, through the door, pityingly. "Now you are far worse than before; as long as the treasure was still supposed to be in our house, my father at least could keep a good look out; but now, it is in a chest far away in the wide world, and no one knows anything even of the house to which it may have been carried."

The friends laughed again. "Your father's house is not on that account less under suspicion," said her husband, consolingly.

The Professor sent back the contents of the chest to the Royal Council, expressed in his letter his warm thanks to the Sovereign, and mentioned that an uncertain trace made him very desirous of obtaining permission to make personal investigations.

The letter had the desired result for both parties. The Sovereign had the satisfaction, which is pleasing to earthly masters, of appearing to confer a favor while he was seeking one.

The Professor was joyfully surprised when he received from the Council in the name of the Sovereign a letter promising to promote his investigations in every way, and making the following proposal: The Sovereign wished his cabinet of antiquities to be examined by a scientific authority, and there was no one to whom he would more willingly trust this task than to the Professor. He knew well how valuable to others was the work of so learned a man, but he hoped that his collection might appear of sufficient importance to him to spend a few weeks upon it.

At the same time the Chamberlain wrote, by desire of his gracious master, that the Sovereign would be delighted if the Professor would accept the hospitality of the Palace during the time of his stay. A garden pavilion, which was a pleasant spring-residence, would be at his disposition. The dwelling was large enough to receive his family also, and he was commanded to suggest that there would be plenty of room if the Professor would bring his wife and servants, as the Sovereign did not wish that the learned man should be deprived of his domestic comforts during his stay. The beginning of the spring would be the best time for both parties; and the Chamberlain would be delighted to do the honors of the capital to his countrywoman.

The Professor hastened with flying steps to his wife, and laid the letter in her lap. "Here, read what endangers our journey into foreign lands. It will engross the greatest part of our traveling time. But I must accept the invitation; for any prospect, even the most distant, of obtaining the manuscript compels me to stake much that a man will only sacrifice for a great hope. Will you accompany me on this chase? You see, the kind people have thought of everything."

"I a guest of our Sovereign!" exclaimed Ilse, reading the letter. "Never should I have dreamt of such an honor. What will my father say of it! It is a very honorable invitation for you," she continued, seriously; "and you must at all events accept it. As for me, I think it may be best for me to remain here."

"Why should we be separated for weeks?--it would be the first time."

"Send me to my father meanwhile."

"Does not that come to the same thing?" asked the Professor.

"What shall I do among these strangers?" continued Ilse, anxiously.

"Nonsense," replied the Professor. "Have you any reason to give?" and he looked at her, discomposed.

"I cannot say that I have," replied Ilse.

"Then decide at once, and come. We should probably feel more free if we could live as we liked; but I should not wish to reside for weeks at a hotel in a foreign city; and, from another point of view, this reception will save both parties the difficulty of offering and refusing compensation. We shall remain there as long as is indispensably necessary; then we shall go south, as far as we can. It is, after all, only putting off the journey a few weeks."

When the Professor's letter of acceptance arrived, the Chamberlain informed the Sovereign of it in presence of the Marshal: "See to it that the pavilion is arranged as comfortably as possible. Dinner will be served at the pavilion at whatever hour the Professor wishes."

"And what position does your Highness intend the strangers shall occupy at Court?" inquired the Marshal.

"That is understood," said the Sovereign; "he has the privilege of a stranger, and will occasionally be invited to small dinners."

"But the Professor's wife?" asked the Marshal.

"Ah!" said the Sovereign, "the wife. It is true, she comes with him."

"Then," continued the Marshal, "there is to be dinner for two at the pavilion; apartments for two, and a room for a lackey without livery."

"That is enough," said the Sovereign; "for the rest, we shall see. If the Professor's wife visits our ladies, I assume they will return the civility. We will leave the rest to the Princess."

"What is the history of these strangers?" asked the Marshal of the Chamberlain. "You know the people."

"As one knows people in a strange city," replied the Chamberlain.

"But you arranged their coming?"

"I only wrote according to the Sovereign's orders. The Professor is a learned man of reputation, and a thorough gentleman."

"But what has his wife to do here."

The Chamberlain shrugged his shoulders. "He could not be got without his wife," he replied, cautiously.

"Yet the Sovereign made a point of her coming."

"Did that strike you?" asked the Chamberlain. "I, for my part, did not remark it. He made it appear as if it were a matter of indifference to him; and, furthermore, she is a country-woman of his."

"You know that the Sovereign would be the last to infringe the rules of the Court. There is no reason for anxiety."

"At all events, the Princess must maintain her position. I hear this Professor's wife is considered a beauty?"

"I believe she is also a woman of high character," replied the Chamberlain.

The Professor received the desired permission. Ilse made her preparations for the journey with a solemn seriousness which struck all around her. She was now to approach the presence of her Sovereign, whom she had regarded from a distance with shy respect. It made her heart heavy to think that the son had never spoken of his father, and that she knew nothing of her illustrious master but his countenance and manner. She asked herself, anxiously: "How will he treat Felix and me?"

Whilst Felix was collecting all the books and documents which were indispensable for the journey, the Doctor was standing sorrowfully in his friend's room. He was satisfied that the Professor could not withdraw from the duty of seeking for the manuscript; and yet his invitation to Court did not please him. The sudden breaking of their tranquil life disturbed him, and he sometimes looked anxiously at Ilse.

Laura sat, the last evening, near Ilse, leaning on her shoulder, weeping. "It appears to me," said the latter, "that something portentous lies in my path, and I go in fear. But I leave you without anxiety for your future, although you have sometimes made me uneasy, you stubborn little puss; for I know there is one who will always be your best adviser, even though you should seldom see each other."

"I lose him when I lose you," cried Laura, in tears. "All vanishes that has been the happiness of my life. In the little garden which I have secretly laid out for myself, the blossoms are torn up by the roots, the bitter trial of deprivation has come to me also; and poor Fritz, who already was practicing resignation, will now be quite lost in his hermitage."

Even Gabriel, who was to accompany the travelers to the capital and await their return home from abroad at the house of Ilse's father, was excited during this period, and often disappeared into the house of Mr. Hahn when it became dark. The last day he brought home from the market a beautiful bird of uncommon appearance, with colored feathers, pasted on a sheet, with the inscription: "Peacock from Madagascar." Gabriel wrote, in addition, in clear, stiff characters: "Faithful unto death." This he took in the evening to the enemy's house. A whispering might be heard there, and a pocket-handkerchief be seen, which wiped the tears from sorrowful eyes.

"No allusion is meant to the name of this family," said Gabriel, holding the bird once more in the moonlight, the beams of which fell through the staircase window upon two sorrowful faces; "but it occurred to me as a remembrance. When you look at it think of me, and the words I have written on it. We must part, but it is hard to do so." The honest fellow pulled out his pocket-handkerchief.

Dorchen took it from him; she had forgotten her own, and wiped her eyes with it.

"It is not for long," said Gabriel, consolingly, in spite of his own sorrow. "Paste the bird on the cover of your trunk, and when you open it and take out a good dress, think of me."

"Always," cried Dorchen, weeping. "I do not need that."

"When I return, Dorchen, we will talk further of what is to become of us, and I hope all will go well. The handkerchief which has received your tears shall be a remembrance for me."

"Leave it to me," said Dorchen, sobbing. "I must tell you I have bought wool, and will embroider you a wallet. This you shall carry about you, and when I write, put my letters in it."

Gabriel looked happy, in spite of his sorrow; and the moon glanced jeeringly down on the kisses and vows which were exchanged.