Chapter VIII: Part 8

"My decision is already made," said Michael, quietly, "but I shall obey."

"Good! Until to-morrow, then!"

Steinrueck turned away, and the captain saw him join the Countess Hertha, who came hastily to meet him. She had told, then; she had invoked another authority, finding her own interference of no avail, and that other could not lightly be set aside, although the expression of Michael's face as he perceived all this showed no inclination to bow to it.

In the mean time the general had offered his arm to Hertha to conduct her to her mother; she uttered no question, but her eyes were full of anxious inquiry.

"All right, my child," Steinrueck said in an undertone. "I have taken the matter in hand, and you need not be afraid. Only remember that this must be kept secret. I rely upon your discretion."

Hertha drew a long breath and forced a smile. "Thanks, Uncle Michael. I trust you implicitly,--you will avert all misfortune."

* * * * *

It was early the next clay. The Countess Hortense was sitting at breakfast, when the Marquis de Montigny entered.

"I am an early visitor, but I was passing the house," he said, greeting his sister affectionately. "Are you alone? I thought all breakfasted together here."

Hortense shrugged her shoulders. "Not at all; my father-in-law rises with the dawn, and has usually been at work for three hours when I get up. There is something frightful in such strong, restless natures, which never feel the need for repose."

"They seem to me rather to be envied, especially at the general's age," remarked Montigny.

"Perhaps so; but he thinks others should emulate him. Our household is regulated like a barracks; everything is done at the word of command, and woe to the servant who is guilty of unpunctuality! It has cost me a positive struggle to preserve my personal liberty. I carried my point at last, but poor Raoul is absolutely forced to submit to this martinet rule."

"I am afraid such a rule is sometimes necessary; Raoul is not easily controlled," said Montigny, dryly. "You, as a woman, are of course ignorant of much which I have learned since my arrival here, and of which the general is also cognizant. It is time that your son were married, Hortense."

"I have no doubt that he sometimes goes rather far in his youthful exuberance," the Countess admitted. "His is a fiery, enthusiastic nature, that rebels against rules and barriers, but marriage will put an end to his follies, and Hertha is beautiful enough to hold him captive always. You admire her, I am sure; she had a brilliant triumph last evening."

"No wonder. By the way, Hortense, the Clermonts were there last night. Are they intimate with Herr von Reval?"

"I think Raoul introduced them there. It is the fashion to frequent the Reval house."

"Indeed? Then Raoul is intimate with young Clermont?"

"He is, and I should like to have him and his sister here, but--here you have a proof of my father-in-law's incredible tyranny--the general absolutely forbids my inviting them. I was once obliged to recall an invitation which I had sent them at Raoul's request. The general is determined to exclude the Clermonts from our circle."

The marquis suddenly grew attentive. "That is strange. What reasons does he assign?"

"Reasons? He never condescends to give me any. He simply commands, and I must obey."

"I think you do well to obey in this instance," the Marquis said, in so significant a tone that his sister looked at him in surprise.

"Why? Have you heard anything against the Clermonts? They do not seem to be very brilliantly circumstanced pecuniarily, but they brought excellent letters of introduction, and they belong to a very ancient French family."

"Certainly; there is no doubt of that."

"Well, then, I do not understand you, Leon."

The Marquis moved his chair a little nearer, and laid his hand upon the Countess's arm: "Hortense, I am forced to open your eyes, for you seem utterly blind in this matter. You are desirous that Raoul should marry Hertha?"

"Desirous? Why, I rest all my hopes upon it. This marriage means wealth and splendour for Raoul, and for me the freedom I have so long desired. How can you ask such a question?"

"Then let me advise you not to encourage your son's intimacy with the Clermonts. I hear he is there every day, and--Frau von Nerac is a widow."

Heloise smiled incredulously. "Heloise von Nerac? She is not even pretty."

"But she is very dangerous."

"Not as a rival of Hertha. Such a betrothed could hold any man captive."

"If she chose; but she does not seem to choose. The young Countess treats her betrothed very strangely; she is very reserved, while Frau von Nerac, on the other hand, is very engaging."

"Impossible!" exclaimed Hortense, her anxiety at last aroused. "Raoul's marriage is to take place so shortly; he never would be so insane as to sacrifice his entire future for the sake of this Heloise."

"He would not be the first whom passion has blinded to self-interest. But I meant only to warn, not to terrify you. I only suspect; it is for you to discover the truth. But be cautious; a false step might ruin everything."

The Countess changed colour; the thing thus hinted at might well terrify her, for it meant the destruction of all her hopes. "You are right; there may be mischief to be feared," she said. "I thank you for your warning."

Montigny rose, quite satisfied with the result of the conversation. The diplomat had achieved his purpose without mentioning what was not to be mentioned. He knew that Hortense's maternal solicitude would prompt her to use all her influence to withdraw Raoul from his intercourse with the Clermonts, and he thought that he had amply provided for Henri de Clermont's acquiescence in such cessation of intercourse. As to whether the suspicion he had expressed were well founded or not the Marquis cared little; what he desired was that his nephew should be delivered from associations the pernicious nature of which was but too well known to him. He once more advised his sister to be cautious, and then he took his leave.

In the mean time another conversation, of a far more stormy character, had been taking place above-stairs in the general's study. Steinrueck had confined himself on the previous evening to forbidding his grandson to take any further steps in the quarrel with Michael; but this morning he had sent for him, and was now emptying the vials of his wrath upon the young man's head.

"Are you dead to all reason, to all prudence whatsoever, that you must select Michael Rodenberg with whom to pick a quarrel?" he asked. "If you had been led in a moment of passion to insult him, I could have understood it; but from what I hear from Hertha, your rudeness seems to have been deliberate and intentional."

"It was by the most unfortunate chance that Hertha happened to be in the next room," said Raoul, confronting his grandfather with an air of defiance, "and that she should have taken it into her head to tell you----"

"Was the wisest, the most sensible course she could have adopted," the Count interrupted him. "Another girl would have appealed to you with tears and entreaties, which would have availed nothing, for, as matters stand, you alone cannot put a stop to the affair. Your betrothed applied to me, rightly judging that I was the one to interfere here. This duel must under no circumstances take place."

"It is an affair of honour, in which I shall permit no interference!" exclaimed Raoul, angrily; "and it is, besides, my own personal affair."

"No, it is _not_, or I should let it take its course, for you are no longer a boy, and are responsible for your own actions. But this quarrel affects our family interests most painfully. Have you never reflected that it will drag to light circumstances which should be kept strictly private?"

The young Count looked dismayed. He certainly had not thus reflected, and he replied, somewhat abashed, "I do not think that such a consequence is inevitable."

"But certainly it is most probable. However the duel may terminate, it will attract universal attention to its principals; there will be all sorts of inquiries as to what provoked it, and the required explanation will be found in the name of Rodenberg. Hitherto it has escaped special notice, because it occurs several times in the army list, and because the captain has occupied towards us the position of an entire stranger; it will soon be discovered that he is no stranger to us, for as soon as he is seriously questioned by his comrades or his superior officers he must confess the truth. At first you were outraged by the bare possibility of such a revelation, and yet you are the one wantonly to provoke it."

The truth of this was so apparent that even Raoul could not gainsay it. "Perhaps I did not perceive all the bearings of the matter," he said, sullenly. "One can't always control his mood, and this Rodenberg's arrogance irritated me. He behaves as if he were entirely my equal."

"I fear the arrogance was on your side," said Steinrueck, sternly. "I had a sample of it when you first met Michael here; he was forced to compel you to show him the merest courtesy, and I have no doubt this was the case when you met him afterwards. Did you provoke a challenge or not?"

Raoul evaded a direct reply; he said, contemptuously, "How was I to know that the adventurer's son was so sensitive on a point of honour? But no wonder!"

"Captain Rodenberg is one of my officers, and his honour is stainless, you will please to remember!" The general's voice was sharp and stern. "I beg that there may be no fresh insult to make a reconciliation impossible. It is just nine o'clock; your antagonist may be here at any moment."

"Here? You are expecting him?"

"Of course; the affair must be adjusted among us personally. He received my summons coldly enough, but he will be here, and I trust you now see clearly why this duel must be prevented. You were the one to offend, from you must come the apology."

"Never!" Raoul burst forth. "Rather let the worst come to the worst!"

"That I will not allow!" said Steinrueck. "Is Captain Rodenberg there? Admit him."

The last words were addressed to a servant who appeared at the door, and in a moment Michael presented himself.

He saluted the general, but seemed not to observe the presence of the young Count, who, standing aside, cast at him an angry glance.

"I have summoned you hither to adjust the affair between you and my grandson," the general began. "First of all, it is necessary that you should take notice of each other. I beg you to do so."

The request sounded like a command, and as such was obeyed; the young men bowed to each other, very formally indeed, and the general continued: "Captain Rodenberg, I have learned--from whom, is of no consequence--that you consider yourself as having been insulted by young Count Steinrueck, and that you purpose demanding satisfaction of him. Is this so?"

"It is, your Excellency," was the calm reply.

"The Count is, of course, ready at any moment to grant you satisfaction, but this duel I neither can nor will permit. In any other affair of the kind I should leave the arrangement to those principally concerned, but this cannot be here, in view of the peculiar relations in which you stand to our family. You must be aware of this."

"Not at all. Those relations have been so entirely ignored hitherto that there is no reason for regarding them now, and strangers are ignorant of them."

"They will be so no longer if matters are pushed to a bloody issue. The public and the press are wont on such occasions to investigate curiously the personal connections of those concerned, and the truth would be speedily discovered."

Michael shrugged his shoulders. "Count Steinrueck should have remembered this before provoking such an issue. It is now too late for such considerations."

"It is not too late. Some means of adjustment must be devised. I repeat to you what I have just declared to my grandson, that under no consideration can this duel take place."

The words were uttered emphatically, but they produced no effect; Michael's reply was still more emphatic. "Upon a point of honour, your Excellency, I can permit no control. If the Count can bow to a command in such a case, I cannot!"

Raoul looked at him half indignantly, half in surprise. He, the son and heir of the house, had never ventured so to confront his grandfather, neither would the general have suffered such open rebellion against his authority; but from Rodenberg he did not resent it. He frowned, indeed, ominously, but he condescended to a kind of explanation.

"I am a soldier like yourself, and would not ask of you what is inconsistent with your honour. You believe yourself to have in no wise provoked this quarrel?"

"I do."

Steinrueck turned to his grandson: "Raoul, I now desire to hear from you whether what Captain Rodenberg regarded as insulting on your part was accidental or intentional. In the first case the affair is arranged."

Raoul was sufficiently familiar with this tone, but he had no intention of embracing the means of adjustment thus afforded him. He had meant to insult, and was only restrained from frankly declaring the fact by fear of his grandfather; he took refuge in a sullen silence.

"It was intentional, then!" said the general, with slow emphasis. "You will, then, retract this insult, this wanton insult, here in my presence."

"Never!" exclaimed Raoul. "Grandfather, do not drive me to extremes. The limit of my submission to you is reached when I allow such words to be used to me before my antagonist. I refuse to be humiliated further. Captain Rodenberg, I am at your service; appoint the time and the place."

"It shall be done to-day," Michael replied. "Will your Excellency permit me to take my leave?"

"No, not yet!" exclaimed Steinrueck, suddenly dropping his formal tone and stepping between the young men. "I must remind you both of what you seem to have forgotten. You are blood relations, and this tie of blood I will have respected. Strangers may have recourse to pistols in such cases; the sons of my children must settle their quarrel by other means."

"Grandfather!" "Your Excellency!" There was the same tone of defiance in each voice, but the general went on, imperiously:

"Hush, and listen to me! This is a family matter, in which the public should have no share: it is for the head of the family alone to adjust it. I am the authority here, I alone have the right to interfere, and I forbid you to have recourse to weapons. The blood flowing in the veins of each of you is mine, and I will not have it thus spilled. As head of the family, as your grandfather, I demand implicit obedience from my grandsons."

His tone and manner were so commanding that rebellion seemed impossible,--the old chief of the Steinruecks compelled obedience. In fact, neither of the young men gainsaid him. Raoul stood still in sheer bewilderment at what he had just heard. 'My grandsons,' and 'the blood flowing in the veins of each of you is mine!' Why, it amounted to a formal recognition.

Michael too felt this; his eyes gleamed, but not with delight, and his bearing was still more haughty than before, although he did not speak.

"Raoul is the offender, as he himself admits," Steinrueck began again. "In his name I declare to you, Michael, that he retracts everything that could bear an insulting construction; and you, on your part, will relinquish your haughty bearing, which is a kind of provocation. Does this content you?"

"If Count Raoul confirms your words--yes."

"He will do so. Raoul!"

The young Count did not reply. He stood biting his lip, his hand clinched, as he cast a glance of hatred at his antagonist. Apparently he was resolved to defy his grandfather's authority.

"Well?" said Steinrueck, after a pause. "I am waiting."

"No, I will not!" burst forth Raoul.

But the general stepped up to him, and, looking him full in the eye, said, "You must, for you are in the wrong. If Michael were the offender I should require the same from him, and he would obey; since you insulted him, it is your part to yield. I require only a simple 'yes;' nothing more. Will you confirm my words, or not?"

Raoul made a final attempt to maintain his defiant attitude, but his grandfather's flashing eyes cast their wonted spell upon him,--they forced him to obey. A few seconds passed, and then the young Count uttered the desired 'yes,' half inaudibly indeed, but it was uttered.

Michael inclined his head. "I withdraw my challenge; the affair is adjusted."

Steinrueck gave a sigh of relief. He was not quite so iron as he seemed. His sigh betrayed his suffering at the thought of his two grandsons confronting each other in mortal combat.

"And now shake hands," he went on, in a gentler tone, "and remember in future that you are of the same race,--although it must in future, as hitherto, be kept a secret from the world."

But Raoul's obedience would go no further: he turned away with an expression of frank hostility; and Michael said, "Pardon me, your Excellency, but you must allow us to do as we choose in this respect. The Count, as I perceive, is not anxious for a reconciliation, nor am I. I promise to give no occasion for a renewal of the quarrel. As for a tie of relationship between us, we are alike determined to ignore anything of the kind."

"Wherefore?-- Does my recognition not satisfy you?" Steinrueck asked, indignantly.

"A recognition forced from you by necessity, by fear of a public scandal, which must be kept secret because it is considered a disgrace,--no, it does not satisfy me! Count Raoul has enjoyed his grandfather's affection all his life, he may yield obedience to his commands; I have always been outcast, repudiated every hour of my life; I have been made to feel that the Steinruecks considered me beneath them in rank, and would fain banish me from their social circle. Here, in this very room, you declared to me that for you there was no tie of relationship between us. I now make the same declaration to you. I do not choose to accept privately as a favour what is mine of right before all the world; however you may acknowledge me as your grandson, I shall never admit that you are my grandfather, never! And now may I entreat General Count Steinrueck to dismiss me?"

He spoke with perfect mastery of himself, but there was a sound in his voice that made Raoul start and look at him in surprise; he seemed to hear his grandfather speaking. In fact, the resemblance had never been so striking as now, when the two men stood erect confronting each other. The eyes, the carriage, everything bore witness to the relationship just disowned; the young man's stern resolve was an inheritance from his grandfather. He was the old Count's youthful presentment.

"Go, then!" said the general. "You choose to see in me only your superior officer. So be it for the future."

Rodenberg saluted, bowed to his cousin, and left the room, where for some minutes after his departure an oppressive silence reigned, broken at last by Raoul: "Grandfather!"

"What is it?" said Steinrueck, who was still looking towards the door behind which Michael had disappeared.

"I think you have now had sufficient proof of the arrogance of your 'grandson.'" The word was uttered with infinite contempt. "He was quite magnificent as he rejected the recognition that you offered him, and actually refused to admit any tie of blood between us. And you have forced me to humiliate myself to that man!"

"Yes, this Michael is iron," Steinrueck muttered, between his teeth. "Nothing avails with him, neither kindness nor severity."

"And, moreover, he resembles you immensely," Raoul went on, in his indignation and in his irritation against his grandfather seizing upon the chance to irritate him in turn. "I never noticed it before, but just now when he stood opposite you the resemblance was almost terrifying."

The general slowly turned his gaze from the door and riveted it upon his grandson, with an odd expression in his eyes. "Did you perceive it too? I knew it long ago."

Raoul did not comprehend this calm. He had looked for an angry retort, an indignant disclaimer of any resemblance. The Count perceived his surprise, and, suddenly adopting his old authoritative tone, he said, "But no matter! The quarrel between you is now made up, and I do not believe that even you have any temptation to renew it. Avoid each other in future; it will not be difficult. And now leave me."

Raoul went, but with rage in his heart. Whereas hitherto he had felt only a haughty dislike for Michael, he now hated him with all the intensity of his passionate temperament. Perhaps General Steinrueck would have done more wisely not to subject him to the humiliation he had undergone,--it could never be forgotten by either cousin.

* * * * *

Hertha was standing alone at her window gazing out, but she saw nothing of the surging life in the principal street of the capital. Her eyes were persistently turned in the direction of the general's place of abode. He had promised to send her tidings in the course of the forenoon, and if he had really succeeded in preventing the duel his messenger should have already arrived, but there was no sign as yet of the Steinrueck livery, and the young Countess's impatience and anxiety increased with each minute that passed.

All at once she leaned far forward. She had recognized the general, who was just turning the corner; yes, it was he himself, and as he recognized her he waved his hand to her. Thank God, he was smiling! That could not betoken any unhappy termination.

She left the window, but did not dare to hasten to meet the Count. No one must suspect anything unusual. Only when she heard his step in the anteroom did she fling open the door and hurry towards him. "You come yourself,--you bring me good news?"

The question was uttered breathlessly, and Steinrueck replied in a soothing tone, "Certainly, my child; there is no cause for further anxiety: the affair is arranged."

Hertha drew a long breath of intense relief: "Thank God! I hardly dared to hope."

The general cast a searching glance at her pale, weary face; then, taking her by the arm, he led her back into the room and closed the door. "I certainly have had a hard time with the obstinate fellows," he began. "Neither would yield, neither would make the slightest advance. At last I had to exert all my authority to bring them to reason. Nevertheless the affair was not so grave as you supposed; a couple of thoughtless words of Raoul's, a sharp reply from Rodenberg,--it was quite enough to send such a couple of Hotspurs to mortal combat. They would fain have sprung at each other's throats there and then. Fortunately, I heard of the matter in time to prevent mischief."

He spoke in a half-jesting tone, but Hertha perceived that his smile, as well as his gayety, was forced. She was not deceived: she knew the gravity of what he seemed to esteem so lightly.

"And they have given you a sleepless night, too; you show that," he continued. "Our coy little betrothed repents her treatment of poor Raoul yesterday, eh? Let it be a warning to you, Hertha. No man can endure such treatment, even at the hands of the woman he loves the best."

"Least of all, perhaps, at her hands. But do you imagine that Raoul really loves me?"

The general was startled by the tone of bitterness in which she spoke. "Has he not wooed and won you?"

"According to a family arrangement, in compliance with your express desire. I know the value of this love 'to order.'"

"Surely this is nothing new to you," said Steinrueck, gravely. "You knew it all from the first. You both yielded to considerations deemed very important by those of our rank. There is no great amount of romance about such unions; but, so far as I know, you have never missed it. Why should you suddenly adopt this bitter tone with regard to Raoul, who might with justice accuse you in return?"

The young Countess was silent; she had no answer for this question.

"The old evil spirit is stirring again; it must be conjured and banished," the general said, with a fleeting smile. "I have had to do it once before, in the early days of my guardianship. Then I was obliged to discipline a spoiled and idolized child, who had known no will save her own. You rebelled passionately, and your mother shed tears because I was so stern, and prevented her also from yielding. We had a stormy scene, but when the child's passion was exhausted she carne to me of her own accord, put her little arms around my neck, and said---- Do you remember, Hertha?"

She smiled, and, laying her head upon his shoulder, completed the sentence: "'I love you dearly, Uncle Michael. Very dearly!'"

He inclined his head and kissed her forehead. "Because I knew how to control you. Ever since I have been secure of your affection; but Raoul does not understand yet. I could wellnigh believe that the knight who is the ideal of the dreams of this proud, wayward girl must have something in him of the dragon-slayer, or he can never rule her."

"He must be like you!" exclaimed Hertha, eagerly,--"like you, Uncle Michael, with your iron force of character, your invincible will, even your sternness. I could have fallen in love with you if I had known you in your youth."

Steinrueck shook his head, smiling. "What! Flattering your old uncle? But in truth your nature craves to be striven for, to be won by storm. My child, fate seldom gives us our choice in these matters: we must yield to destiny, as you are now learning. Believe me, in the eyes of a hundred other women Raoul is the ideal of manliness and chivalry; since I have learned that you love him in spite of his not being the hero of your dreams, I am not disturbed. And, to be frank with you, Hertha, I did not know this before yesterday. Until then I had grave doubts of your sentiments, but the mortal anxiety that you betrayed last evening when you entreated my interference, and the way in which you received me this morning, have shown me how you trembled for Raoul."

A crimson flush slowly mounted to the cheek of the girl, and she hung her head without a word in reply.

"Was it necessary that some danger should threaten your betrothed to wring from you such an avowal?" the general went on, reproachfully. "Hitherto you have played but a cold, formal part towards Raoul, and it has estranged him from you. Only show him the trembling anxiety for his life that you showed me, and you can do with him what you will; he will be a willing captive."

Hertha's blush deepened, and hurriedly, as if eager at all hazards to change the subject, she said, "You really think all danger over?"

"Yes; the insult as well as the challenge has been retracted in due form. The quarrel is at an end."

"But not the enmity! I could only give you a faint idea last evening of what really passed between them. You do not know what words Raoul made use of,--not concerning the captain himself, but concerning his parents."

"Ah, it was that, then!" muttered Steinrueck.

"Do you know anything about them?" the Countess asked, hastily.

"I only know that there is not the slightest stain upon Rodenberg's honour, and that suffices me. How did he receive Raoul's words?"

"Like a wounded lion. He was absolutely terrible: if Raoul had said another word I believe he would have struck him down."

The general's attention was roused by the girl's passionate tone, and he gazed at her with a dawning suspicion in his look, while Hertha, all unconscious of his glance, went on, with flashing eyes and glowing cheeks: "Rodenberg was indignant to the last degree; he silenced Raoul with a look and a tone such as I have never seen and heard before, save once; in you, Uncle Michael, that time at Berkheim, when they brought before you the poacher who had shot our forester; it brought you directly to my mind as you were then."

Steinrueck made no reply to these last remarks; he still gazed fixedly at the young Countess, as if trying to decipher something in her features. "Perhaps Raoul's words were not unfounded," he said at last, very slowly. "Who can tell what he may know of Rodenberg's origin?"

"He was all the more inexcusable for touching upon the matter," Hertha persisted, with a vehemence of which she herself was unconscious. "You yourself say that the captain's honour is stainless, and Raoul surely knows it as well as you; and therefore he attacked the parents. It was cowardly and malicious; it was base and----"

"Hertha, you are speaking of your betrothed!" the general sternly interrupted her.

Hertha paused, and her colour faded. Steinrueck laid his hand heavily upon her own, and said in an undertone, but with severity, "For whose life did you tremble? For whom were you anxious?"

She was silent, although she knew but too well,--the sleepless hours of the past night had revealed the truth to her,--but no sound escaped her lips. The Count gazed steadily at her. "Hertha, I demand an answer. Will you not, or can you not, give me one? Surely the betrothed of Count Steinrueck knows what she owes to him and to herself."

"Yes, she knows well," said Hertha, gravely and firmly. "Have no fear; I shall redeem my word."

"I look for no less from you!" He clasped her hand tightly in his own for a moment, then dropped it and arose. "What time is appointed for your departure?" he asked, after a pause.

"The beginning of next week."

"That is well. I thought of persuading your mother to remain here; but I now think you had best go as soon as possible. You need--change of air. And one word more, Hertha. Could Raoul have seen and heard you just now, when you spoke of his antagonist, he never would have receded from the duel, and I could not have blamed him for refusing to do so. Farewell!"

He spoke coldly and sternly, leaving the room as proudly erect as ever; but in the hall outside he stayed his steps for a moment and covered his eyes with his hand. Was it tottering to its fall, the structure that he had reared so proudly upon what he had deemed so sure a foundation?

'He must be like you, with your iron force of character, your invincible will, even your sternness.' Those words had roused the Count's suspicion. Yes, there was one who resembled him trait for trait, and who could understand how to control the wayward child if he were but allowed free play. This must be put a stop to at all hazards. Hertha must go,--must be removed from so perilous a proximity. Her whim--it could be nothing further--would change when deprived of the object that had gratified it. It was not to be supposed serious in any way. But it was hard for the general that the peril should come from such a quarter, that it should be just this man that threatened destruction to his plans. He could not have thought it possible.

Upon this same forenoon Professor Wehlau was sitting at his writing-table in his study, where, for a wonder, he was not at work, but was poring over a newspaper which seemed to contain something that annoyed him greatly; there was a black cloud upon his brow.

The newspaper, the best and most brilliantly conducted in the capital, did, in fact, contain a long article concerning 'Saint Michael,' the first important work of a young artist, a pupil of Professor Walter, which was to be publicly exhibited in a few days. The critic, who had seen it on the easel, spoke of it with enthusiastic admiration, and did not fail to inform the public that the picture was already sold. It was destined for the pilgrimage church of Saint Michael, where it was to be installed the ensuing week with due solemnity. This last announcement was too much for the Professor's equanimity,--he fairly gnashed his teeth.

"Why, this is better and better!" he growled. "If they are already beginning to turn the lad's head in this fashion, there will be no doing anything with him. 'Magnificent composition, brilliant execution, talent of the highest order justifying the most extravagant expectations'! Oh, yes, here it comes again; I know the jargon! 'The talented son of a distinguished father.' The deuce take these admirers, and Hans too, and Michael into the bargain!"

He threw the sheet aside and began to pace to and fro. Wehlau was one of those who cannot endure to be in the wrong. He would rather have maintained that white was black than have confessed that his eye, which was wont to see so clearly in scientific affairs, had been utterly deceived with regard to his own son. Hans was and must remain a good-for-naught, who, since he had declined to become his father's pupil and successor, was fit for no grave pursuit in life. He was wedded to this opinion, and he clung to it with all the obstinacy of his character. Had the article denounced his son as a dauber he would have triumphed. But it called him a genius, and this he looked upon as an insult, since it proved himself in the wrong.

"Does the man hope to persuade me that the boy is good for something?" he soliloquized, angrily. "I say it is false! The lad is a fool,--a booby, who with his face and his amiability has bribed the critic as he bribes everybody. _He_ do anything of any consequence! He'll not impose upon me; I'll never set foot in his studio, nor look at one of his pictures, although ten critics should praise them and twenty countesses buy them!"

He raised his hand as if to make a solemn vow, when suddenly the door was opened, and the old gardener, who likewise did duty in the studio as Hans's servant, of course without any permission from the Professor, made his appearance.

"What is the matter?" snarled Wehlau, in the worst of humours. "You know, Anton, that I am not to be disturbed in my study. What do you want?"

"Excuse me, Herr Professor," said the old man in evident distress. "I have just come from the studio,--from the young master."

"That's no excuse; I'll have no such interruptions in future. Do you hear?"

"But, Herr Professor, the young master is so ill,--so very ill,--I thought he would die in my arms!"

"What!" Wehlau exclaimed. "What is the matter with my son?"

"I do not know. I was working in the garden, when he opened the window and called me, and when I went to him he was lying on the floor half dead. He had been taken suddenly ill,--mortally ill, and had only strength enough to say 'Call my father!' And I came running to find you."

"Good God! the boy has been in perfect health hitherto!" cried Wehlau, hurrying out of the room. All his vexation and annoyance were forgotten, as well as the vow he had made, as he ran through the garden towards the studio, followed by Anton.

Upon opening the door of the atelier he was shocked to find the young artist lying back in an arm-chair with closed eyes; his hand was pressed upon his heart, whence the breath came in short, laboured gasps. His face could not be clearly seen, since the heavy window-curtain was drawn closely, and there was but a dim light in the part of the room where he lay.

The Professor was at his son's side in an instant, bending over him. "Hans, what is the matter with you? You cannot be ill? It is the only folly in which you have not indulged hitherto, and I positively forbid it. Speak to me, at least."

Hans opened his eyes, and said, in a broken voice, "Is that you, papa? Forgive me for sending for you. I thought----"

"But what is the matter with you?" The Professor would have felt his son's pulse, but the young man withdrew his hand, as if unconsciously, to put it beneath his head.

"I do not know. I suddenly grew fearfully dizzy; everything was dark before my eyes; it was terrible."

"It all comes from this confounded paint,--your cursed daubing," Wehlau exclaimed, in despair. "Anton, open the window, let in the fresh air, and bring some water instantly."

He seized the left arm of the sick man, who tried to repeat the man[oe]uvre previously executed by the right one. This time, however, his father was too quick for him, and clasped the wrist firmly. "Why, how is this? Your pulse is perfectly normal." There was suspicion in his tone, and he turned hastily and dashed aside the window-curtain. The daylight streamed into the room and showed the young man's face as fresh and rosy in colour as ever. Its expression of suffering did not for an instant deceive the experienced physician.

"This is another of your infernal tricks," he burst forth. "Heaven have mercy on you if you have played this farce with me just to get me inside your studio."

"But, at all events, here you are, papa," cried Hans, who, seeing that any further attempt to feign illness would be useless, sprang to his feet. "And you certainly will not go away without a glance at least at my 'Saint Michael.' There it stands against the wall; you have only to turn round."

The entreaty sounded very fervent, but Wehlau marched straight towards the door. "Do you suppose you can force me in this way? I shall have a word to say to you hereafter about your base deceit. Now let me out."

Instead of obeying, Hans closed the door in the face of old Anton, who was bringing the water ordered by the Professor, and turned the key. "No use to try to get out, papa. There is no help for you. This is my kingdom; I have duly captured you, and shall not release you. Look at the picture."

This was more than the Professor could bear. The tempest that had been gathering strength during the last few minutes broke forth with fury, but it failed to affect Hans, who showed an amount of strategic capacity that would have done honour to his friend Michael. He talked fast and loud, edging his father, meanwhile, towards the opposite wall, and, when he thought him near enough, he suddenly seized him by the shoulders and turned him round.

"Hans, I tell you if you dare to----" Wehlau suddenly paused, for involuntarily he had glanced at the picture. He looked at it again, and then slowly approached it.

The young artist's eyes sparkled triumphantly. He was sure of his cause now, but he stationed himself behind his father to cut off retreat, which, however, the Professor had ceased to contemplate. He stood as if spell-bound, staring at the picture.

"It is my first work of any importance, papa," Hans began in his most caressing voice. "I could not possibly send it out into the world without showing it to you. You must not be vexed with me for the stratagem I had to employ to get you here; it was the only way to induce you to enter my studio."

"Hold your tongue, and let me look at the thing in peace and quiet," Wehlau growled, moving to get the best point of view.

Thus several minutes passed, and then the Professor began to mutter to himself in a way that sounded half angry, half approving. At last he turned to his son and asked in a low tone, "And you mean to tell me that you did this thing all yourself?"

"Certainly, papa."

"I don't believe it."

"You will surely not refuse me credit for my own work? How do you like it?"

The Professor began to mutter again, but this time it sounded more promising. "Hm! the thing is not so bad; there is force and life in it. Where did you get the idea?"

"Out of my head, papa."

Wehlau looked from the picture to his son, in whose head he had declared there was no room for anything save folly: the matter seemed to him inconceivable.

"Michael deserves the principal credit in the affair," the young artist said, laughing. "He has been an incomparable model. Of course I had no end of trouble in getting him into the right mood, but on one occasion I succeeded in irritating him so that he burst into a furious passion, and then I caught the expression and fixed it on the canvas. But you don't tell me what you think of my daubing."

The Professor's features twitched oddly; apparently he would fain have scolded and fumed afresh, but it was impossible, and at last he said, very gently, "But in future you will paint no more altar-pieces,--promise me that."

"No, papa; my next picture will portray natural science in the person of 'our distinguished investigator.' When will you sit to me?"

"Let me alone!"

"That is only half a promise, and I want a whole one. Shall we begin to-morrow?"

"Deuce take it! yes,--since there's no help for it."

"Victory!" shouted Hans, throwing his arms around his father, who no longer resisted; on the contrary, he clasped his son close, and looking into the young man's sunny blue eyes, he said, in a burst of tenderness, "You'll never make a scholar, my boy, of that I am now convinced, but, nevertheless, you may be good for something after all!"

* * * * *

At Saint Michael preparations were making for the festival of the saint; a very great occasion this year, since the new altar-picture was to be consecrated in its place with all due solemnity. The pilgrimage church was in festal array, and the Alpine hamlet, usually so quiet, was filled with the bustle of joyous excitement; preparations were making to receive the thousands of pilgrims who would arrive on the morrow from all parts of the mountains to pay their devotions in the sanctuary of the archangel: all was not yet ready, and it was the eve of the holiday.

On this afternoon the pastor had been as much pleased as surprised by the sudden and unexpected appearance of his former pupil, Captain Rodenberg. There was something pathetic in the old priest's delight. "Such a surprise!" he said, detaining the young man's hand in his clasp. "The last thing that I dreamed of was seeing you just at this time."

"I have only a single day at my disposal," replied Michael. "I must be in M---- the day after tomorrow again to join Colonel Fernau, whom I accompanied thither. I managed to get a three days' leave, and I made this little excursion to see your reverence."

Valentin smiled and shook his head. "Do you call it a little excursion? Why, it is almost a day's journey from here to M----; you have to drive alone through the mountains for five hours. But I am glad you think your old teacher worth the trouble; I shall at least have you on St. Michael's day; my faint hope that Hans might come has been disappointed."

"He wished to come, but he thought he owed it to his father to stay away. The Professor takes it to heart that the name of Hans Wehlau should be in such close connection with a festival of the church. You know----"

"Yes, I am perfectly aware of my brother's attitude with regard to the church," said Valentin, with a half-smothered sigh. "I made an abject apology to Hans when his 'Saint Michael' arrived, for I had never given our madcap credit for the earnestness and depth of character shown in this work of his."

"You all did him injustice; his own father especially underrated him," Michael warmly declared. "I alone, seeing the picture from the first sketch, was aware of what it promised. Hans has had a great triumph during its exhibition. It was instantly appreciated by the public, and elicited a burst of admiration; the critics praised it with rare unanimity, and everything has been done to spoil the artist with flattery. Fortunately, he is one of those who cannot be spoiled. Is the picture in its place yet?"

"It has been hung since the day before yesterday,--a costly and beautiful gift from the Countess to our church. She meant to be present at its consecration, and came from Berkheim to Castle Steinrueck for the purpose."

"She will be here to-morrow, then?" Michael asked.

"No; unfortunately, she has been taken ill; she caught cold on the journey, and is seriously indisposed, so she sent me----"

Here they were interrupted by the sacristan, very hurried, very worried, with a number of questions to ask and communications to make with regard to the festival. His reverence had to arrange, decide, and oversee; there was a deal to be done.

"I think I ought not to monopolize you any longer," said Rodenberg. "The Herr Pastor appears to be in constant requisition. I will go up to the church for a while, to see how Saint Michael looks in his present surroundings. We shall have some quiet hours together this evening."

"I am afraid that can hardly be. You do not yet know,--I was just going to tell you, but----"

His reverence did not finish his sentence, for old Katrin came in at that moment with her arms filled with evergreens and garlands, and wanted to know where they were to be put, and the sacristan too stood waiting. Valentin was at his wits' end.

Michael left him and took the familiar road to the pilgrimage church. It was early in May, and the mountains were beginning to show the presence of spring, always so late to arrive among them.

The Eagle ridge was still girdled with ice, in dazzling crystal splendour, but the brooks from the glaciers, their chains broken by the sun, were dashing foaming down to the valleys, and the dark hemlock forest nestling against the rocky wall had already shaken the burden of snow from its boughs. From the alps and meadows surrounding Saint Michael the snow had also disappeared; they were laughing in fresh sunny green, while through them here and there trickled tiny rivulets from the heights; it was as if the whole mountain world had awaked to life. Still, however, above the heights and depths, above forest and meadow, the wild spring blasts were careering, sounding their note of promise and of victory.

Michael entered the church, quite empty at this hour of the afternoon, but having donned its modest festal garment. Here upon these lonely heights there were no fragrant blossoms of the spring,--column and portal were wreathed about with dark evergreen, and little nosegays of Alpine flowers were the sole decoration of the altar. There was, nevertheless, a breath of spring in the solemnity reigning in the quiet, spacious structure, now filled with the golden light of the declining sun. The church might wear a more festal aspect when thronged with a devout crowd, but it was much more beautiful in the profound consecrated repose in which it awaited its festival, still untouched, as it were, by all the aspirations, prayers, and laments which would arise from within its walls on the morrow. No inharmonious sound disturbed its quiet; even the roaring of the wind outside, dying away in long-drawn notes, sounded like the tones of a distant organ.

Saint Michael was enthroned above the high altar; not the dim picture of the saint which time had half destroyed, and which had been but the crude outcome of mediaeval piety,--that had been respectfully transferred to the church vestibule,--but the work of the young artist who was making a name and fame for himself. Michael had been familiar with it from its first conception, he had seen it repeatedly; but it had been for him, as for the public, and even for the painter himself, only a picture, a scene of conflict, accidentally illustrating a legend of the church. He was surprised to the last degree by the impression produced by the picture in its present place. In the twilight of the chancel, between the tall Gothic windows with their glowing colours, it took on quite another appearance; it seemed freed from all earthly taint, the embodiment of the ancient sacred legend, repeated in all religions and among all races of mankind, of the victory of light over darkness.

Rodenberg slowly approached the high altar, and as he did so he became aware of a kneeling female figure, hitherto concealed by a column from his observation. It was no peasant: a gown of dark silk fell in folds upon the ground, and beneath the veil of black lace that had been thrown over the head there was a gleam as of red gold which Michael knew only too well. He paused as if stayed by a spell. Was this a freak of his fancy which was always bringing up before him the same image? Just then the lady, roused by the sound of his footstep, turned her head; an exclamation of surprise that was almost terror escaped her lips. Those were Hertha's eyes gazing at him.

It was surely a fate that had brought these two together for the second time in a lonely Alpine village, at an hour when each had believed the other miles away,--at least thus this unexpected meeting seemed to them. Both so lost their self-possession that neither observed the other's embarrassment; there was a pause, which Michael was the first to break. "I am sorry to have disturbed you, Countess Steinrueck; I thought the church was empty, and did not perceive you until this moment."

Hertha slowly arose from her knees, conscious that her exclamation, her apparent dismay, called for some explanation. She had been lost in contemplation of the picture; she could not have told how long she had been gazing at Saint Michael, when suddenly he whom the saint suggested stood before her. There was a tremor in her voice as she rejoined, "I was, indeed, surprised. His reverence had not told me that you also were to be his guest."

"I arrived unexpectedly only half an hour ago, and had not heard of your being here, having been told only that you, with the Countess your mother, were at Steinrueck."

"We both meant to come to Saint Michael," said Hertha, who by this time had regained her self-possession, "but my mother was taken ill,--not seriously, however,--yet I came with some anxiety. It was her express wish that at least one member of our family should be present at the festival and at the consecration of her gift, and so I yielded to her desire."

Michael uttered a few words of condolence and sympathy, mere phrases, which fell mechanically from his lips and were scarcely heeded. He did not look at Hertha as he spoke, and she avoided glancing at him. Instinctively their looks refused to encounter each other; they dwelt upon the picture, now fully illumined by the setting sun, which, streaming through the side windows into the nave of the church, cast a broad band of golden light upon the high altar.

The picture had none of the traditional setting of its predecessor: no circle of angelic heads looked down from above; no flames flickered up from the abyss; the two life-size figures were alone within the frame, each powerful and effective in its way. Above them arched the clear shining heavens; beneath them yawned a rocky gulf, the abode of eternal night.

Dashed from on high, on the very edge of the abyss, Satan was writhing upwards with the last desperate effort of a conquered foe not in the guise of the horned dragon-like monster of the legend, but in a human form of strange demoniac beauty, with dark wings like those of a bird of night. The face expressed agony, rage, and at the same time horror of the power that had hurled him to destruction; while in the upturned eyes there was the hopeless despair of a lost soul conscious of the light that had been radiant about it, but to be henceforth quenched in eternal night. It was Lucifer, once the Son of the Morning, and now showing in his ruin a gleam of his former splendour.