The beautiful house which Herr Ebenstreit von Leuthen possessed upon the finest street in Berlin, “Unter den Linden,” had been newly arranged and splendidly ornamented since his marriage and elevation to a title, and now awaited his arrival. For many weeks mechanics and artists had been busily employed; and the good housekeeper, old Trude, saw with bewildering astonishment the daily increasing splendor of gilded furniture, costly mirrors and chandeliers, soft carpets, tapestries, and gold-embroidered curtains, exquisite paintings and statuary, which the possessor had forwarded from Italy, and many other objects of art standing upon gilt and marble tables.
Every thing was completed. The bustle of the busy workmen had ceased, and Trude slowly wandered through the solitary rooms, examining every article. Her face bespoke dissatisfaction, and a smile of contempt was visible there.
“Miserable trash, for which they have sold my poor child!” murmured the old woman. “For these worthless, glittering toys have they ruined the happiness of the dear innocent heart, and on them the guilt will fall if her soul is lost! I remark how she is changed in her letters since her shameful, mercenary marriage. She writes of nothing but the arrangement of her house, and speaks as if the beauty and costliness of things were only to be thought of, and there is not even a confidential, heart-felt word for her old Trude. It would seem as if she had forgotten all former objects of interest. Oh, what trouble and sorrows the rich have! That good-for-nothing money hardens their hearts and makes them evil and selfish.”
The loud ringing of a bell sounded through the solitary drawing-rooms.
“That is, undoubtedly, the general’s wife,” said Trude, shaking her head. “She rings as if she would announce the king, with her nose turned up so high, or as if she were the money-sacks of her son-in-law!”
Trude was right; her shrill voice was heard ordering the steward, who had but just arrived. “It is abominable, it is unheard of!” she cried, as with a heavy push she burst open the door; “this man presumes to contradict me, and—ah, there you are, Trude!”
“Here I am,” she answered; “were you looking for me?”
“Yes, and I would ask you if my orders are not the same as if given by Herr Ebenstreit von Leuthen or his wife, or have you instructed the new steward otherwise, which, it is laughable to say, you have engaged?”
“No, I have not instructed him thus. Dear Marie has not ordered it in her letter.”
“Dear Marie,” repeated Frau von Werrig. “How can you permit yourself to speak so intimately of the rich Baroness von Ebenstreit?”
“Very true, it is not right,” sighed Trude; “I beg pardon.”
“I came here to see if every thing was in readiness, and ordered the steward to ornament the doors and corridors with garlands of flowers; he has had the boldness to tell me he dares not do it!”
“He is right, Frau von Leuthen. Baroness Ebenstreit von Leuthen (have I got the title right?) wrote and expressly forbade any festivity to greet her arrival. Here is the letter—I carry it around with me; I will read it to you: ‘I expressly forbid any manifestation whatever to be made at our return, whether of garlands or flowers, as they are only hypocrisy and falsehood. I wish no one there to receive me—remember, Trude, no one! Inform my family that, as soon as I have recovered from the fatigue of the journey, I will make them the visit of duty with the baron.’”
“What cold, heartless words are these! One could hardly believe that a daughter was writing of her parents.”
“On her wedding-day she perhaps forgot that she had any,” said Trude, shrugging her shoulders, “and she should not be at once reminded of that trying occasion on her return. I expect her every moment, as the courier has already arrived an hour ago, and it would be better—”
“You cannot be so impudent as to tell me to leave? Indeed, I will not be prevented from waiting to receive my only child that I have not seen for three years. One can well believe that a mother would be impatient to embrace her dear daughter! I have no other happiness but my beloved child, and I long, unspeakably, to press her to my heart and tell her my sorrow.”
“Sorrow! is it possible that Frau von Werrig has any griefs? I supposed there was nothing in the world troubled her.”
“And yet I am very much tormented. I can well tell you, Trude, as you are familiar with our circumstances,” sighed the countess. “You know the general is tolerably well; the journeys to Wiesbaden and Teplitz have cured him of the gout unfortunately, so that he can go about.”
“Are you sorry for that, Frau von Werrig?”
“Certainly I am, Trude, as he has returned to his former habits, frequenting the society of drinking-houses and gamblers. Imagine the general played yesterday, lost all his ready money, and that was not enough, but signed away the year’s pension from Herr von Ebenstreit, during which time we have nothing but the miserable army annuity to live upon.”
“Then your income will be less to live upon than formerly, for dear Marie earned something with her flowers and lessons which she gave to you, although she was never thanked for it. She was then my dear good Marie, so industrious and patient, and worked untiringly for her parents! Then she forgot them not, and toiled early and late, and, oh, it breaks my heart to think of it, and I must cry in your presence!”
She raised the corner of her dark-blue apron and dried her eyes, holding it there as she continued to weep.
“What an ugly apron!” cried the countess, “and how meanly you are dressed altogether! Is that the way you intend to go looking as the housekeeper of a rich and genteel family? Go, Trude, quickly, and put something better on, that you may receive your master and mistress in a suitable dress.”
“I shall remain as I am, for I am very properly dressed. It may not be suitable for a housekeeper, but it becomes old Trude, and it is my Sunday frock, which I always wore when I was maid-of-all-work to you. You may not remember it, but dear Marie (I should say Baroness von Ebenstreit) will, perhaps, and it may recall her little room in the garret, and then—”
“And then she will at last think, Trude, how we took care of her, and how thankful she ought to be to her parents that they married her to a rich man. If Marie sees it at last—”
“You forget with whom you speak, Frau von Werrig,” Trude interrupted her, scornfully, “and that it does not become you to speak of Marie to old Trude, but you should remember her title.”
“Well, then, when Baroness von Ebenstreit enters this costly house, she must understand that her mother was mindful of her best interests, and that she owes all this to her; and you, Trude, must remind her of it, and tell her about my dreadful trial with her father, and that it is my daughter’s duty to release me from it, and beg her husband not to deduct the gambling-debt from the pension, but pay it this once. For it would be a dreadful injustice to make me suffer for the general’s rage for play, and show but little gratitude for the riches which I brought her. You will tell my daughter all this, Trude, and—”
“I will not tell her any thing at all, Frau von Werrig,” interrupted. Trude, warmly. “May my good genius keep me from that, and burdening my conscience with such falsehoods.—Hark! A carriage is coming, and a post-horn sounded. They have arrived!”
Old Trude hurried out just as they drove up to the door. The steward and two servants in livery rushed down the steps to assist them to alight, and Trude also to greet her favorite, who was now so pale, grave, and chilling in her appearance.
The large eyes of the lady rested with cold indifference upon the old woman, whose eyes were turned to her with the tenderest expression. “I thank you,” she said, coldly. “Husband! I beg you to give me your arm.” Proudly she passed the statuary, and over the soft carpets without comment, or even a word for old Trude.
The steward and housekeeper followed the silent couple.
“Shall I take you to your room first?” asked Ebenstreit, “or will you do me the pleasure to look at the newly-arranged drawing-rooms?”
“Certainly,” she replied, with indifference. “We will first look at the drawing-rooms, as we shall probably receive much company this winter, and they are of the first importance. You know that I dislike solitude.”
“Indeed, I recall that we are very seldom alone!” sighed her husband.
“It would be fearful if we were,” replied his wife, with marked indifference.
The steward just now opened the little door of the ante-room, sparkling with chandeliers and mirrors. “Ah! this is really beautiful, and well chosen,” cried Ebenstreit, looking about with an air of great pride and satisfaction. “Tell me, Marie, is it not worthy of you?”
Glancing coldly around, she replied: “It does not please at all. The furniture is very costly, and reminds one of the parvenu. Every thing recalls the riches of the newly-titled banker.”
Her husband’s brow contracted, but he did not trust himself to contest his dissatisfaction with his cold, proud wife, but sought another vent for it.
“You are very unkind, Marie. Have the goodness to tell me how you, with these severe ideas, can suffer that Trude for a moment should appear before us in this poor-looking dress which, indeed, does not recall any wealth!”
Frau von Ebenstreit’s eyes glanced quickly over the old who, she said, was the only object which did not bespeak the gaudiness of newly-acquired wealth, but she appeared as the respectable servant of an old and noble family in fitting dress. “Remain as you are, Trude, and do not let yourself be misled by our follies! I—but what is that I see?” she cried as the steward opened the next door at the silent nod of her husband.
“Oh, my beloved children, there you are at last; after three years’ absence I have the happiness to embrace you, my only daughter,” cried Frau von Werrig, as she approached them with outstretched arms and an affectionate smile, essaying to throw her arms around Marie’s neck, who waved her back.
“My child, my child,” whimpered the mother, “is it possible that my daughter can receive me thus after so long a separation?”
Turning to Trude, Marie asked her, with a reproving look and tone, if she had received her letter, or if she had forgotten her express commands that no one but the servants should be in the house to receive them.
“I did not forget it, my lady, and I have read the orders to Frau von Werrig, but she—”
“Knew that this wish had no reference to her, as she is her mother—Tell me, my beloved son, is it not very natural and fitting that I should be here to receive you?’
“I find it a matter of course,” answered Von Ebenstreit, to whom it appeared a relief to find an ally in the mother against his proud and beautiful wife. “I rejoice to see our dear mother here, and I beg Marie will join me.”
Marie cast an angry glance toward her husband, which so confused and perplexed him, that he looked down. Then advancing toward the drawing-room, with her usual cold demeanor, without further comment upon the ostentatious furniture, she commanded her husband to follow, who obeyed, giving his arm to his mother-in-law.
“Oh, this is glorious!” he cried, smiling. “What splendor, what luxury! Tell me, my dear mother, is not this beautiful reception-room very aristocratically and appropriately fitted up?”
“I should think a princess or a queen might be satisfied with it,” she cried, with enthusiasm. “Even in royal palaces there is nothing of the kind to compare to this gold-embroidered tapestry.”
“Baron,” said Marie, commandingly, “have the kindness to dismiss the steward. I wish to speak with you and Frau von Werrig.”
The steward slipped out without waiting to be sent, and Trude stood near the door, turning to the young baroness, as if to ask if she might remain.
“Did you not hear, Trude?” cried the mother, impatiently. “Tell her to go!”
“Remain, Trude,” said Marie, quietly. “You are familiar with the past. I have nothing to deny to you; shut the door and stay here.—And now,” she continued, as her voice lost its gentleness, when she addressed her mother, “if it is agreeable to you, I should like to have an understanding with you!”
“But, my child,” sighed the mother, “how strangely altered you are! You address me, your mother, as Frau von Werrig, and you speak to Ebenstreit in a very formal manner, who has been your dear, faithful husband for three years. Oh, my darling son, what does this ceremonious manner mean?”
“The very first hour, after our marriage, that we were alone my dear Marie severely reproved me for having addressed her in an intimate, affectionate manner, like the common class, as she called it, and I have never done so since.”
“You must be convinced that I am right,” said Marie, calmly, “and that it does not become two beings, who neither love nor esteem each other, and who live in the most ceremonious manner, to address one another with endearing epithets. At any rate we are not accountable to any one, and Frau von Leuthen must know the relations we bear to each other in the so-called marriage, as it is her arrangement for the most part.”
“And I pride myself upon it,” she cried, with animation. “I have brought about this marriage, which is good fortune to us, and I hope my daughter will prove her gratitude, and my son will show me the affection he has so often sworn to me.”
“I do not know what my husband may have sworn to you, but permit me to say, I do not understand whom you, Frau von Werrig, address as daughter here; if you accidentally refer to me, you are in error; I have never possessed a mother to love me, although formerly, during long years I endeavored with tender assiduity to win a parent’s heart. That is long past, however. The very day that I married Herr von Ebenstreit I renounced all family ties, and resolved to be self-reliant. My husband will witness that he has never known me to yield, and that I have always been firm and resolute in my decision.”
“No one would doubt it,” replied Ebenstreit, timidly. “We had a very strange marriage, which scarce deserves the name. We resemble more two companions who have joined in business, the one side reluctantly, and the other joyfully. I long for a happy married life, which has been quite impossible thus far.”
“And will be to the end, which you will yet learn; and Fran von Werrig should understand it, as she brought about the union, and should not be in doubt as to the conclusion.”
“I acknowledge that I am almost speechless and quite paralyzed with that which I see and hear. I should doubt that this cold, proud woman before me were my daughter, if it were not for the name she bears, and her features.”
“That which you and my husband have caused me to become. He knew that I neither loved nor esteemed him, and that a union with him seemed so unendurable that I would have sought refuge in death, if I had not vowed to support life to attain the aim which I imposed upon myself. That is all past; it is the future which we must arrange. I am glad that you are here, Frau von Werrig, that we may understand each other once for all; but you came against my wishes.”
“You must excuse it, dear Marie. It was the longing of mother’s heart which led me hither; the love—”
A cold, contemptuous glance of the large eyes caused the mother to cease, and quail before her daughter.
After a short pause Marie continued: “I wish to exercise alone and unhindered the executive rights of a lady in her own house. Do you acknowledge the justice of this, my husband?”
“Perfectly and unconditionally, dear Marie. You know that I have no other will but yours, which is my highest happiness to submit myself to in all things, always hoping to gain your love and win your heart; that—”
“That this woman has changed to stone,” said Marie, coldly, pointing to her mother. “As you then recognize me as the mistress of this house, I shall avail myself of my just right, and no one can prevent me, for I stand alone, absolved from all family ties. By my birth and your riches, I shall occupy the position of a woman of the world, and as such I shall live.”
“I am delighted to hear it, Marie,” cried her husband. “For this reason I have had the drawing-rooms furnished in the most costly manner, and I shall be proud to receive the aristocratic society who will come to render homage to my wife, as they have done everywhere in Paris, London, Rome, Madrid, and St. Petersburg. We have frequented the highest circle in all these cities, and they have crowded our drawing-rooms, charmed with the beauty, distinguished manners, tone of the world, of your daughter.”
“I beg of you to make but one subject the sole object of conversation,” said Marie, harshly. “I have said that I will avail myself of the privilege, as mistress of this house, of receiving no one whom I do not wish to see, and no one can enter without consent. Is it clearly understood, husband?”
“Yes,” he answered, somewhat agitated; “it is the right of every housekeeper—I understand you.”
“It is also clear to me,” cried Frau von Werrig, with difficulty suppressing her wrath. “But I will await the decisive word, and see whether it is possible for a daughter to have the insolent presumption to drive he mother from her house!”
“I have already informed you that I have no mother, and that no one has the right to call me daughter. If you await my decision, you shall now hear it; you are not included among those that I wish to receive in my house!”
“Ah, dear Marie, you are cruel!” cried her husband, quite frightened.
“She is a degenerate, good-for-nothing creature!” cried the mother.
“If I am so, who has caused it but you, both of you? Who broke my heart, and crushed it under foot until it ceased to feel, and turned to stone? Bear the consequences of your cruelty and heartlessness! I cannot change it, and I repeat, Frau von Werrig has not the right to enter this house, or to remain here any longer!”
Scalding tears fell from the mother’s eyes as she shrieked, “She drives me from her house!”
“I am only treating you as you behaved to one of the noblest and best of men,” replied Marie, voice and look betraying her deep feeling. “You thrust from your door, with scorn and contempt, a man worthy of your esteem and recognition, although you knew that my heart was breaking. I am only following your example and exercising my just rights, and am less guilty than you are, as neither of us has need of the respect or esteem of the other.”
“Can you suffer this, my son? Do you allow any one in your presence to treat me so shamefully? After all, it is your house; do speak and exercise your right as master here: tell your wife that I am her mother, and you, my adopted son, who bears my name, and that I have the just right to come here as often as it pleases me.”
“Speak your mind to Frau von Werrig,” said Marie, as Ebenstreit remained silent. “Decide which shall remain, as one or the other of us must leave; you are perfectly free to choose.”
“Then, naturally, there is no choice left me,” replied Ebenstreit, despondingly. “I declare myself for my wife, of course, who is the noblest and proudest beauty in Berlin, and will make my house the centre of attraction to the aristocracy, nobility, and wealth. This is my greatest pride, and to secure this I wooed my beautiful bride, and have submitted to all the sorrow and humiliation which have been my portion. If I must choose between the mother and daughter, I naturally prefer the latter.”
“He abandons me also!” cried the mother. “You are an ungrateful, wretched man! You forget that you owe every thing to me, and that without me you were a miserable mercenary, whose stupidity and tediousness were the ridicule of every one, and you had never gained the entrance to a genteel house. What have you now become? A high-born man, whose house every one will crowd, and who could even appear at court, as he bears our noble and distinguished name. To whom do you owe all this, but to me alone?”
“God in heaven, Thou hearest it!” cried Marie, solemnly, with uplifted arms. “She acknowledges that she alone has brought this misfortune upon me, and in this hour I stand justified.”
“Pardon, Frau von Werrig,” said Ebenstreit, haughtily; “you are going too far. After my fortune, I thank you for my position. I am certainly of insignificant birth, but I am ambitious and rich. I said to myself, ‘Money can bring about all that I wish,’ and you see it has accomplished it. My wealth procured me a title, a splendid house, a beautiful wife, and a position in society. I acknowledge that you aided me in the carrying out of my plans, but you would not have done it, if I had not been in a position to pay you. You receive a very considerable annuity from me, therefore you cannot accuse me of ingratitude, but must confess that you have driven a very good bargain. You must forgive me if I beg of you to end this painful scene.”
“That means that I must leave,” said Frau von Werrig, mildly, remembering the gambling debt and the annuity. “Very well, I will go, and promise you never to return, upon two conditions.”
“Have the goodness to communicate them,” said Ebenstreit.
“The first is, pay the gambling-debt of my husband, who has played away the entire sum you allow us yearly, and do not deduct it from our income. The second is, increase your allowance five hundred thalers, without letting the general know it, and pay it to me.”
“It is impossible,” cried Ebenstreit, terrified. “You mistake me for a Croesus, whose wealth is inexhaustible. If this expenditure and demand increase, my colossal fortune will be entirely wasted, and—”
“You exaggerate,” interrupted Marie, with a peculiar brilliancy in her eyes. “Such wealth as yours is never-ending, and the banking business, which you are still engaged in under another name, is an inexhaustible source of wealth. I beg you to accept these conditions, that we may at last be at peace.”
“Very well,” said Ebenstreit, to whom the words of Marie sounded as the sweetest music. “I will then accord your wishes, and you shall have the five hundred thalers for yourself.”
“For me alone?”
“Yes, for yourself alone, Frau von Werrig.”
“Who vouches for the fulfilment of your promise?”
“My word, Frau von Werrig.”
“I have no confidence but in a written promise.”
“Then I will have it made out, and bring you the document to-morrow morning.”
“Then our business is finished, and I can go.—Farewell, baroness; this is my last word to you. I cursed you from the moment you came into being. If you had been a son, the rich estate in trust of my family would have passed to you, of which I was the natural heir. As it was, it went to a distant relative, and we received nothing. Therefore your parents could not rejoice at your birth, and we only pardoned you when you married a rich man, who could free us from want, and now the separation is no grief to us. You have always been a disagreeable burden, and I am only quit of a discomfort, and renounce forever the sight of you.—Give me your arm, my son, and accompany me at least to the threshold of your house, that you may be able to say to this cold-hearted viper, that she is forever rid of the sight of her mother, who will never think of her but with chilling contempt.” She seized Ebenstreit by the arm, who had not the courage to resist her, and drew him along with her, casting a look of supreme disgust at old Trude, who stood pale and sad near the door.
As the door closed, and Marie found herself alone with her old friend and nurse, a peculiar change was visible in her sad face; something of its former sunny radiance brightened its usually sorrowful expression, and she turned to greet Trude with the smile of earlier, happier days, though it was tinged with sadness and grief. Impulsively she threw her arms around her faithful nurse, kissing her, and, with quivering lip, whispering: “A greeting and a blessing for you, dear mother! Take me to your kind, disinterested heart, and let me there find repose from all this torture and love the poor lost one, who—”
She drew suddenly back, her face assuming its usually cold, look as she heard her husband enter.
“She is gone, dear Marie. I hope that you are gratified with my decision, and perceive therein a proof of my excessive love and esteem for you,” said Ebenstreit, drawing a long breath.
“I did not desire this polite evidence of it,” she coldly responded. “We have solemnized our entrance into this house in a fitting manner, and the important matter remaining for us is to make known our arrival to the society of Berlin. The horses purchased in Alexandria, and the new carriage from London, have already arrived—have they not?”
“My book-keeper so informed me a fortnight since, when we were in Paris, and complained of the enormous sum which he had to disburse.”
“You must forbid him such a liberty once for all,” said she, and the strange blending of joy and scorn was visible in her face. “It is inadmissible for a subordinate to presume to complain to his master, or advise him. He has only to listen and obey. This all your inferiors must understand, and know that they will be dismissed who murmur or advise!”
“I will instruct them accordingly,” he sighed, “though I must confess my head-man well understands financial operations, and during the many years that he has been with me has won the right to be consulted and advised with.”
“Then prove your gratitude as it becomes a true cavalier and a nobleman,” dictated Marie. “Settle his salary as an annuity upon him, and replace him.”
“But he receives very great wages, and is still very active, though advanced.”
“The more the reason to pension him, that he may repose his remaining years and enjoy the fruit of his labors. But do as you like. I have only told you how a noble cavalier would act; if you choose to bargain and haggle, it is your own affair.”
“Heaven keep me from acting otherwise than as a nobleman!” cried Ebenstreit.
Marie nodded assent, desiring that the carriage might be ordered, with the Arab horses. “We will make our visits at once, as I will, for the first time, open our large house for a soiree to-morrow evening,” she added.
“Ah, that is charming!” said Ebenstreit, delighted. “I shall at last have the opportunity of seeing the aristocratic Berlin society, and enter upon the rank of my new title.”
“Yes,” she replied, with an expression of irrepressible scorn, “you will have this enjoyment. Send me the steward, I wish to give him a list of the invited guests. You can add to it at your pleasure.”
“I have no one to invite,” cried her husband.
“No matter! Make the necessary preparations. I will go to my room to make my toilet.”
“Will you not allow me to accompany you? You are not yet familiar with the house.”
“Trude will show it to me, and you can at the same time give the orders.”
Nodding proudly to Ebenstreit, she told Trude to precede her, following the old woman through the suite of brilliant rooms.
“Here is my lady’s dressing-room,” said Trude, entering one ornamented with mirrors, laces, and gauzes.
The French waiting-maid was busy within, unpacking the large trunks filled with silk and satin dresses which had been purchased by the dozens in Paris.
“Lay out an elegant visiting toilet; I will return directly, after Trude has shown me the house,” They entered the adjoining chamber, Marie’s sleeping-room and found the German maid arranging the lace and silk coverings for her mistress to repose herself after the long journey. Marie betrayed no inclination for repose, but questioned Trude as to whither the other door led to.
“Into the little corridor, baroness.”
“Did I not order that there should be but one entrance to my sleeping-room, and that from the dressing-room?”
“Your commands have been strictly obeyed,” replied Trude. “The only door from the corridor leads to my two rooms, and there is but one entrance to them upon the other side, which can be securely fastened.”
Into the simple, quiet room, at the baroness’s request, Trude opened the door, saying, “Here we can be alone.”
Marie pointed silently to the second door, and the old woman nodded: “That is it,” said she. “I have done every thing as you directed. After you left, they sent me the furniture of your little garret-room, which I have arranged exactly as it stood there.”
As Marie opened the door and found herself in the small room, so like the one where she had made flowers, given lessons, consoled by her only friend, Trude, her pride and reserve vanished. Sinking upon her knees, as if crushed, she gave way to her long-pent-up grief in one cry of anguish, clinging to Trude, and weeping bitterly.
“Here I am, my faithful nurse, returned to you more wretched and miserable than when I left: then, I felt that I could scorn the world, and now I despise myself. Oh, Trude, they have caused my wretchedness, they have made me selfish and unkind. I was contented until now, and rejoiced in my misery, and triumphantly thought of the time when I was wont to bewail my broken heart and lost soul. Once more with you, and surrounded with the souvenirs of my girlhood, I feel a horror of myself, and could sink in shame and contrition. I have become as bad as they are. Can you forgive the hard-hearted daughter who banished her own mother from her house? I felt that I could not endure her presence, and feared that an inveterate rancor and hate would overpower me, and that I should curse her.”
“She deserves it, my poor child,” whispered Trude, the tears streaming down her cheeks. “She has just told you that she never loved you, and in this painful scene she thought only of bargaining and making money. God has heard her and forgiven you as I do, and I beg and implore Him to punish those who have made you so wretched, and that He will have no mercy upon them, as they have shown none to you. It breaks my heart to see you so changed, and I can hardly believe this cold, haughty lady is my Marie. In your tears I recognize you, and I bless God that you can weep; your grief proves to me that you are yet the child of my heart.”
“Oh Trude, you know not how I have longed to see you; it was my only consolation in these painful years. When I doubted every human being, then I thought of you, and was comforted and sustained.”
“And was there no one else to think of, my child?”
“Yes,” she gently murmured, “I thought of him. Tell me all you know about him, and hide nothing from me in this hour.”
“I thought you would ask me, and I went to Director Gedicke yesterday, to inform myself.”
“What did you hear? Tell me the most important. Does he live? Is he restored to health?”
“He lives, but, for one year, he was so wretched that he could not teach; now he is better. Herr Gedicke went himself to Spandau, immediately after the wedding, and brought him back with him, relating as forbearingly and carefully as possible the circumstances of your marriage, and of your sacrificing yourself for him alone.”
“How did he receive it? What did he say?”
“Nothing. His eyes were fixed, and his lips uttered not a sound. This lasted for weeks, and suddenly he became excited, enraged, and they were obliged to bind him to keep him from injuring himself.”
“Tell me no more,” cried Marie, shuddering. “I thought myself stronger, nay, heartless, and yet it seems as if a hand of iron were tearing, rending my soul!”
“That is well,” said Trude, gently; “you must awaken from this hardened indifference; giving way to your grief in tears will soften your heart, and it will again be penetrated with the love of God and mankind. I will tell you every thing; you ought to know how poor, dear Moritz suffered. After he vented his rage he became melancholy, and withdrew to Halle in solitude, living in a hay-loft. His favorite books and an old piano were his only companions; no one presumed to intrude him, and they even conveyed his food secretly to him, shoving it through a door. He talked aloud to himself for hours long, and at night sang so touchingly, accompanying himself upon the piano, that those who listened wept.”
Marie wept also—scalding tears trickled through her fingers as she lay upon the floor.
Trude continued: “Moritz lived in this way one year; his friends knew how he was suffering, and they proved in their deeds how much they loved and esteemed him. The teachers at the Gymnasium divided his hours of instruction among them, that he should not forfeit his place and lose his salary. Even the king showed great sympathy for him, sending to inquire for him. Herr Gedicke visited him frequently at Halle; and once when about to mount the ladder to the hay-loft he met Moritz descending, carefully dressed, in a reasonable, gentle mood, and then he returned with him to Berlin. There was great rejoicing in the college over his return, and they feted him, witnessing so much love for him that it was really touching. He has been promoted to professor, and at the express command of the king he teaches the young Prince Frederick William in Latin and Greek. Oh, he is so much esteemed and—”
“And is married I hope,” murmured Marie. “Is he not happily married, Trude?”
“No. Herr Gedicke says he could marry a wealthy girl, for he is a great favorite, and is invited into the most distinguished society. He repels every one, and has become a woman-hater.”
“He hates them—does that mean that he hates me?”
“Yes, he thoroughly scorns and despises you; so much so that Herr Gedicke says you should know of it, and keep out of his way. He has sworn to publicly show his contempt for you, and therefore his friends wish you to be apprised of it, and not encounter him in society.”
“It is well, I thank you,” said Marie, rising; “I will act accordingly. Kiss me once more, my dear mother, and let me repose my weary head upon your bosom. Ah, Trude, what a sorrow life is!”
“You will yet learn to love it again, Marie.”
“If I thought that I could sink so low, I would kill myself this very hour. I know myself better, and only for revenge do I live. Hush! say nothing more. Look at me! I am cursed, and there in those gaudy rooms in my purgatory; here is my paradise, and here the wicked demon may dare to change into the sad, wretched wife, who mourns the happy days already flown, and weeps the inconsolable future. Oft will I come here in the night when those sleep who think me so proud and happy, and you alone shall behold me as I am. Now I must back to purgatory.—Farewell!”
A half hour later a splendid carriage drove from the house of Herr Ebenstreit von Leuthen. The people upon the street stood in wondering admiration of the beautiful Arab horses with the costly silver-mounted harness, and sought to catch a glimpse of the occupants of the carriage, an insignificant, meagre, blond-haired man, who appeared like a servant beside the lovely pale wife, though proud and indifferent, who kept her eyes fixed steadily before her.
The chasseur, with his waving plumes, sat upon the box beside the rich-liveried coachman.
As the married couple returned from their drive, having left their cards at the most distinguished houses in Berlin, the baroness handed the list of guests to be invited to the baron to examine. He glanced hastily over it, assuring her that every thing should be directed as she desired, deferring all to her superior knowledge. Suddenly he seemed confused, even frightened. “What is the matter? What were you about to remark?” asked Marie, indifferently.
“I was in error. I have, without doubt, read it wrong. I beg pardon for a foolish blunder, but will you tell me this name?”
Marie bent forward to look at the paper which her husband handed her, and, pointing with her finger, read “Professor Philip Moritz.”
“Do you intend to invite him?” asked Ebenstreit, quite alarmed.
“Why should I not? He belongs to the circle of friends and acquaintances, and it is natural that I should include him. Moreover, there is not a little gossip, and it is necessary to silence it. If you are not of my opinion, strike out the name.”
“Not at all, dearest. On the contrary, you are perfectly right, and I admire you for it.”
“Then give the list to the butler, for it is quite time that the invitations were given out.”
The evening of the soiree had arrived. In quick succession drove the carriages up the broad entrance to the mansion of Herr Ebenstreit, The curious street public pressed in compact masses near the gate to peep in, or at least catch a fugitive glance of the ladies alighting from their carriages, who were received by the butler at the foot of the carpeted steps. A host of gold-bespangled footmen lined the entrance upon each side, which was ornamented with the most exquisite hot-house plants, filling the air with perfume.
Two tall, stately footmen, with broad gold shoulder-bands and large gilt batons, stood at the door of the anteroom, which was brilliantly illuminated with chandeliers and side-lights, reflected in the numerous mirrors. The anteroom led into the reception-room by wide folding-doors, where the names were given to the usher, who announced them in a stentorian voice in the drawing-room. There stood the Baron von Ebenstreit to receive the guests, all smiles, and with bustling assiduity accompany them to the adjoining drawing-room to present them to the baroness.
Among the select company were conspicuous the most distinguished names of the aristocracy. Generals and staff-officers, countesses and baronesses were crowded together, with the ladies of the financial world, near ministers and counsellors in this gorgeous saloon, which was the delight and admiration of the envious, and excited the tongues of the slanderous. Those acquainted gathered in the window-niches and cosy corners, maliciously criticising the motley crowd, and eminently consoled with the sure prospect of the ruin of the late banker, surrounding himself with such unbecoming splendor and luxury, the bad taste of his arrogant, overdressed, and extravagant wife.
“Have you noticed her parure of diamonds?” whispered the Countess Moltke to Fran von Morien. “If they are real, then she wears an estate upon her shoulders.”
“The family estate of Von Leuthen,” laughingly replied Frau von Morien. “You know, I suppose, that the father of General von Leuthen was a brick-burner, and he may have succeeded in changing a few bricks into diamonds.”
“You are wicked, sweet one,” replied the countess, smiling. “One must acknowledge that her toilet is charming. I have never seen its equal. The gold lace over the rose-colored satin is superb.”
“Yes, and the mingling of straw feathers, diamonds, flowers, lace, and birds is truly ridiculous in her head-dress.”
“It must have been copied exactly from the one which the Queen Marie Antoinette wore at the ball at Versailles a fortnight since. The baroness was present at this court ball with her greyhound of a husband, and created quite a sensation with her costly recherchee toilet, as the French ambassador told us yesterday.”
“Certainly not by her manner,” said Frau von Morien. “She is insupportably arrogant and self-sufficient. What do you think of this pretentious manner of announcing our names as if we were at an auction where they sold titles?”
“It is a very good French custom,” remarked the countess. “But it does not become a lady of doubtful nobility and uncertain position, to introduce foreign customs here. She should leave this to others, and modestly accept those already in use by us.”
“One remarks the puffed-up parvenue,” whispered Frau von Morien. “Every thing smells of the varnish upon the newly-painted coat-of-arms.”
“Hush, my friend! I there comes the baroness leaning upon the arm of the French ambassador. She is indeed imposing in appearance, and one could mistake her for a queen.”
“Could any one ever suppose that this queen once made flowers to sell? Come, countess, I have just thought of a charming scene to revenge myself upon this arrogant personage.”
Giving her arm to the countess, she approached her hostess leaning upon the arm of the Marquis de Treves, the French ambassador, as they were standing beneath the immense chandelier of rock crystal, which sparkled above them like a crown of stars, causing her diamonds to look as if in one blaze of different hues.
“Oh, permit us to sun ourselves in your rays, ma toute belle,” said the Countess Moltke. “One could well fancy themselves in a fairy palace, so enchanting is everything here.”
“And the baroness’s appearance confirms this impression,” remarked the gallant Frenchman. “Fancy could not well paint a more lovely fairy in one’s happiest dreams.”
“Yes, truly I wander around as if in an enchanted scene. I feel as if I must seize myself by the head and be well shaken, to convince myself that I am really awake and not dreaming a chapter from Aladdin. I made the effort, but felt the wreath of roses in my hair, and—”
“And that convinced you of your wakefulness,” said the baroness, a little haughtily. Turning to the ambassador, she added: “Do you observe, monsieur le marquis, what a delicate attention this lady shows me in wearing a wreath of flowers which I manufactured?”
“Comment! The baroness is truly a fairy! She causes flowers to grow at her pleasure, and vies with Nature. It seems impossible. I can scarcely believe it.”
“And yet it is true,” said Frau von Morien. “The baroness, indeed, fabricated these roses three years since, when she had the kindness to work for me. You will acknowledge that I have kept them well?”
“It was no kindness of mine, but a necessity,” said the baroness, “and I must confess that I would not have undertaken so troublesome a piece of work from pure goodness or pleasure. You will remember that I was very poor before my marriage, and as Frau von Morien was one of my customers, it is very natural that she possesses my flowers. She gave me many orders, and paid me a very small price, for she is very practical and prudent, and understands bargaining and cheapening, and when one is poor they are obliged to yield to the shameless parsimony of the rich. I thank you, my dear benefactress, for the honor you have shown me in wearing my flowers, for it has been a pleasant occasion to explain ourselves and recognize each other. Have the kindness to recall other remembrances of the past.”
“I do not remember possessing any other souvenirs,” replied the countess, confused.
“Have you forgotten that I gave French lessons to your niece, the present Frau von Hohenthal? She came to me three times weekly, because the lessons were a few groschen cheaper at the house.”
At this instant the usher announced in a loud voice, “Professor Philip Moritz.”
A gentleman of slight proportions, in an elegant fashionable dress, appeared and remained standing in the doorway, his large black eyes wandering searchingly through the drawing-room. Herr von Ebenstreit approached, extending him his hand, uttering a few unintelligible words, which his guest appeared not to notice, but, slightly inclining, asked if he would present him to the lady of the house.
“Have the kindness to follow me,” said Ebenstreit, leading Moritz through the circle of jesting, slandering ladies and gentlemen, to the centre of the room, where Marie was still standing with the French ambassador and the two ladies.
“My dear,” said her husband, “I have brought you an old acquaintance, Professor Moritz.”
As Ebenstreit would retreat, Moritz commanded him to remain, placing his white-gloved hand upon his arm, and holding him fast. “I would ask you one question before I speak with the baroness.”
Moritz spoke so loud, and in such a strange, harsh, and repulsive manner, that every one turned astonished, asking himself what it meant. Conversation was hushed, and the curious pressed toward the peculiar group in the centre to the baroness, who regarded her husband perfectly composed, and the pale man, with the flashing eyes, the glance of which pierced her like daggers.
A breathless silence reigned, broken only by Ebenstreit’s trembling voice. “What is it, professor? How can I serve you?”
“Tell me who you are?” replied Moritz, with a gruff laugh.
“I am the Baron Ebenstreit von Leuthen!”
“And the scar which you bear upon your face, is it not the mark of a whip, with which I lashed a certain Herr Ebenstreit three years since, who prevented my eloping with my betrothed? I challenged him to fight a duel, but the coward refused me satisfaction, and then I struck him in the face, causing the blood to flow. Answer me—are you this gentleman?”
Not a sound interrupted the fearfully long pause which followed. Every one turned astonished to Ebenstreit, who, pale as death, was powerless to utter a word, but stood staring at his opponent.
“Why do you not answer me?” cried Moritz, stamping his foot. “Are you the coward? Was this red scar caused by the whip-lash?”
Another long pause ensued, and a distinctly audible voice was heard, saying, “Yes, it is he!”
“Who replied to me?” asked Moritz, turning his angry glance away from Ebenstreit.
“I,” said Marie. “I reply for my husband!”
“You? Are you the wife of this man?” thundered Moritz.
“I am,” Marie answered.
“Is this invitation directed to me from you?” he continued, drawing a paper from his pocket. “Did you permit yourself to invite me to your house?”
“Yes, I did,” she calmly answered.
“And by what right, madame? This is the question I wish answered, and I came here for that purpose.”
“I invited you because I desired to see you.”
“Shameless one!” cried Moritz, furious.
“Sir,” cried the ambassador, placing himself before Moritz, defying his anger, “you forget that you are speaking to a lady. As her husband is silent, I declare myself her knight, and I will not suffer her to be injured by word or look.
“How can you hinder me?” cried Moritz, with scorn. “What will you do if I dash this paper at her feet, and forbid her to ever write my name again?” Making a ball of it, he suited the action to the word, casting a defiant look at the marquis.
“I shall order the footmen to thrust you out of the house. Here, servants, remove this man; he is an escaped lunatic, undoubtedly.”
Two footmen pressed forward through the circle which crowded around Moritz.
“Whoever touches me, death to him!” thundered Moritz, laying his hand upon a small sword at his side.
“Let no one dare lay a hand on this gentleman,” cried Marie, with a commanding wave of her hand to the lackeys. “I beseech you, marquis, and you, honored guests, to quietly await the conclusion of this scene, and to permit Herr Moritz to finish speaking.”
“Do you mean to defy me, madame?” muttered Moritz, gnashing his teeth. “You perhaps count upon my magnanimity to keep silent, and not disclose the secrets of the past to this aristocratic assembly. I stand here as its accusing spirit, and condemn you as a shameless perjurer.—I will ask you who are here rendering homage to this woman, if you know who she is, and of what she has been guilty? As a young girl she was as sweet and innocent as an angel, and seemed more like a divine revelation. To think of her, inspired and elevated one’s thoughts, and heaven was mirrored in her eyes. She was poor, and yet so infinitely rich, that if a king had laid all his treasures at her feet, as the gift of his love, he would receive more than he gave, for in her heart reposed the wealth of the whole human race. Oh! I could weep tears of blood in reflecting upon what she was, and what she has become. Smile and mock, ladies and gentlemen; my brain is crazed, and I weep for my lost angel.”
Moritz dashed his hands to his face, and stood swaying backward and forward, sobbing.
Sighs and regrets were heard in the room. The ladies pressed their handkerchiefs to their eyes; others regarded with lively sympathy the handsome young man, who deeply interested them, and gazed reproachfully at the young baroness, expecting her to be crushed with these reproaches and tears, but who, on the contrary, stood with proud composure, her face beaming with joy, gazing at Moritz.
“It is past—my last tear is shed, and my last wail has been uttered,” cried Philip, uncovering his face. “My angel has changed into a despicable woman. I loved her as the wretched, disconsolate being adores the one who reveals paradise to him; and she fooled me into the belief that she loved me. We exchanged vows of eternal constancy and affection, and promised each other to bear joyfully every ill in life, and never separate until death. I should have doubted myself, rather than she who stood above me, like a divine revelation. I wished to win her by toil and industry, by my intellect, and the fame by which I could render my name illustrious. It was, indeed, nothing in the eyes of her grasping parents; they repulsed me with scorn and pride, but Marie encouraged me to perfect confidence in her affection. Whilst I wandered on foot to Silesia, like a poor pilgrim toward happiness, to humble myself before the king, to beg and combat for my angel, there came temptation, sin, and vulgarity, in the form of this pale, cowed-down man, who stands beside my betrothed gasping with rage. The temptation of riches changed my angel into a demon, a miserable woman bartered for gold! She betrayed her love, yielding it up for filthy lucre, crushing her nobler nature in the dust, and driving over it, as did Tullia the dead body of her father. She sold herself for riches, before which you all kneel, as if worshipping the golden calf! After selling her soul to a man whom she despised, even if he were not rich, she has had the boldness to summon me, the down-trodden and half-crazed victim, to her gilded palace, as if I were a slave to be attached to her triumphal car. I am a free man, and have come here only to hurl contempt in her face, to brand her before you all as a perjurer and a traitress, whom I never will pardon, but will curse with my latest breath! Now I have relieved my heart of its burden, I command this woman to deny what I have said, if she can.”
With a dictatorial wave of the hand, he pointed excitedly Marie. A deathlike stillness reigned. Even the lights seemed to grow dim, and every one was oppressed as if by excessive sultriness.
Again Moritz commanded Marie to acknowledge the truth of his accusations before the honored assembly.
She encountered his angry glance with calmness, and a smile was perceptible upon her lip. “Yes, said she, I acknowledge that I am a perjurer and a traitor. I have sold myself for riches, and yielded my peace of soul and my love for mammon. I might justify myself, but I refrain from it, and will only say that you have told the truth! One day you will cease to curse me, and, perhaps a tear of pity will glisten in the eye now flashing with scorn and anger. The poor wife who lies in the dust implores for the last blessing of your love!”
“Marie!” he cried, with heart-rending anguish, “oh, Marie!” and rushed toward her, kneeling before her, and clinging to her, pressing a kiss upon her hand and weeping aloud. Only for a moment did he give way, and then sprang up wildly, rushing through the crowd, out of the room.
A fearful silence ensued. No one had the courage to break it. Every one hoped that Marie, through a simulated fainting, would end the painful scene, and give the guests an opportunity to withdraw. No such thoughtfulness for her friends occurred to her.
She turned to the Marquis de Treves, who stood pale and deeply agitated behind her, and burst into a loud laugh.
“How pale you are! Have you taken this comedy for truth? Did you think this theatrical performance was a reality? You have forgotten what I told you a month since in Paris, that I had a native talent for acting. You would contest the matter with me, and I bet you that I could introduce an impromptu scene in my house, with such artistic skill, that you would be quite deceived.”
“Indeed I do recall it; how could I have forgotten it?” replied the marquis, with the ready tact of the diplomat.
“Have I won?” asked Marie, smiling.
“You have played your role, baroness, like an artiste of consummate talent, and to-morrow I shall have the honor to cancel the debt in your favor.”
“Now, then, give me your arm, marquis, and conduct me to the dancing-room, and you, worthy guests, follow us,” said. Marie, leading the way.
The merry music even was not sufficient to dissipate the awkward oppression, and by midnight the guests had taken leave, and Marie stood under the chandelier, pale and rigid, opposite her husband. He had summoned courage to bewail the terrible scene, weeping and mourning over her cruelty and his shame. Marie, with chilling indifference, regarded him without one visible trace of pity.
“You realized what you were doing when you imposed the scorn of this marriage upon me,” she said. “I have never deceived you with vain hopes! You have sown dragons’ teeth, and warriors have sprung up to revenge me upon you. Serve yourself of your riches to fight the combatants. See if you can bargain for a quiet conscience as easily as you purchased me! My soul is free though, and it hovers over you as the spirit of revenge.—Beware!”
She slowly turned and quitted the room. Her diamonds sparkled and blazed in the myriads of lights. The large mirrors reflected the image of a haughty woman, who swept proudly past like a goddess of revenge!
Ebenstreit stood gazing after her. He had a horror of the lonely still room, so gorgeous and brilliantly illuminated—a shudder crept over him, and he sank, weeping bitterly.
In the little room, the buried happiness of the past, Marie knelt, with outstretched arms, imploring heaven for mercy. “I thank Thee, Heavenly Father, that I have been permitted to see him again! My sacrifice was not in vain—he lives! He is free, and his mind is clear and bright. I thank Thee that he still loves me. His anger is but love!”