Chapter XVII (4)

"Certainly I do!" again replied the count.

"This is yet more strange," observed the baron; and then both of them continued to smoke on in silence. They seemed, indeed, so completely absorbed in the contemplation of the bluish clouds of smoke which they continued to puff forth so regularly into the already misty and thickened atmosphere, that one might reasonably have thought that the discussion would end there; but such was not the case.

Let us profit by this interval to make known to our readers who were the Count Shrann and the Baron Frederic. They were two old fellow-soldiers, of whom the recollection yet remains in the minds of those who knew them, as being the most perfect type of that warm and devoted friendship which is less rare than one thinks or than one will admit. They were two brave Germans, who had courageously held their places during the wars in the commencement of this century. They had fought side by side with all the ardor of their youth and patriotism, and had on many occasions saved each other's lives by their bravery. This community of dangers and obligations had yet further strengthened the links of a friendship commenced in their childhood; so that when the peace of 1815 gave to Europe, wearied out by war, a time of rest, our two friends placed their experience and capabilities at the service of their country, as they had already offered the tribute of their blood and courage, each taking on himself the tie and responsibility of married life. Both married on the same day the two daughters of a neighbor whom the war had ruined; and if their brides were little endowed with worldly possessions, at least they were rich in virtues, and that is a wealth which equals the former, although it be much less sought after, and, we may even add, more difficult to find.

Unfortunately these marriages so alike in happiness were far less so in their duration; for at the end of two years Gertrude, the wife of the Baron Frederic, died, leaving in the heart and life of her husband a void which nothing could fill. Many were the efforts made to console the poor baron, many were the mothers who lavished on him their sweetest smiles; many were the maidens who directed on him their chaste regards, and who pictured to themselves a brilliant future in which his name and fortune held a prominent place; but all was useless, for the baron remained quite insensible to these efforts and designs. {796} His friend, and even his sister-in-law, counselled him to seek in a new marriage that close and loving friendship which he was so well adapted to appreciate; but at length, seeing him so obstinately faithful to the memory of Gertrude, they feared to afflict him, and so ceased to press him on the subject, trusting all to time, which, nevertheless, rolled on without bringing any change to the baron's regrets and resolutions. His was one of those strongly organized minds where the impressions, lively as they are lasting, resist the stronger that they are unaccompanied by outward efforts. Hence was it that the baron supported, without giving way an instant, the blow which had struck him, and yet the wound in his heart remained as sensitive and as painful as on that day when with his own hands he placed his well-beloved Gertrude in her shroud. Old age came on, bringing with it its longing for rest, and then the two friends quitted their public life as they had entered it, side by side. The baron went to live with his brother, for thus he designated his friend; and only once every year left his castle to visit his own property and tenants, toward whom he showed a kindness without limit. Some of these tenants abused that kindness, and paid their rent year after year, with tears, excuses, and complaints, the worthy baron leaving them unmolested; and when his steward spoke to him of sending off the estate these families, he replied: "Better that this should happen to me, who have patience with them, than send them away to those who probably would have none." No sooner was he returned to the castle than he forgot all these things, and recommenced spoiling and fondling his nephews and nieces, of whom he had no small number; for the Count Shrann was a descendant of those ancient families who seemed to have presented the prolific virtue of the golden age; nor did the number of his nephews and nieces give any anxious thoughts to the baron, since often would he say to his friend:

"Why torment yourself so much about the future of your children? You will always have enough to settle them all in life; and besides, I myself, who have but cousins in I do not know what remote degree of affinity, I find it but just that these my nephews should inherit my property before them."

And then the count became silent, for he found the baron's answer quite natural, and such as he himself should have made, had their positions been reversed. Between these two men, so closely united by affection and so similar in heart and understanding, there was but one subject on which their point of view was diametrically opposed, and that was the one with which they were engaged at the opening of this chapter. Count Shrann, who had been brought up by a loving and pious mother, was a Catholic both in heart and soul; whilst the Baron Frederic had, on the contrary, lost both his parents at a very early age, and had been brought up by his uncle, who boasted of being the friend and the protector of the Encyclopedists; so that Frederic had been educated in that cold and barren school of materialism which Voltaire has the doubtful honor of having founded. Baron Frederic believed in nothing spiritual, a circumstance which caused great chagrin to his friend, whence it happened that on this, as on so many former occasions, the two friends, after the dinner-hour, had passed long hours in smoking and drinking huge tankards of beer, whilst making the same questions and the same answers on this, the one great subject of their difference in opinion and faith.

{797}

"So you believe that the soul lives for ever?" said the baron.

"Certainly I do," replied the count.

"It is very strange," answered the baron; and then both recommenced to smoke yet more vigorously than before. After a lapse of time during which two less serious men would have discussed three or four such subjects of conversation, the count recommenced: "What do you see so strange in my remark?"

"It is to see a mind such as yours give way to similar ideas and tales fit only, to say the best of it, to frighten children with."

"I, for my part, am yet more astonished to see a man so logical as yourself refuse to believe it; and how dare you treat as springing from weakness of mind that belief which you cannot deny fortifies the soul and places it above the blows of adversity?"

"The soul, the soul," replied the baron, "what is the soul? A name without a substance, and I do not know what of indefinable and vague. A something that we can neither see nor touch, and which eludes both the senses and the understanding. I, for my part, believe in nothing but that which I can see or touch."

"I would remind you, my dear friend, that there are a crowd of things in which you believe, without ever having seen them."

"It is because science explains those things, and I believe in her."

"Science! why, you are too clever not to admit of her inability to give you a full explanation of any one thing. Science proves that the fact exists, but she does not explain the first cause of its existence. She discovers the eternal laws which rule the universe, and it is by that means that she conducts the unprejudiced spirit from the discovery of things created to the knowledge of the Creator of all things; but the first causes of these same laws are utterly unknown to her."

"And what tells you that she will not yet discover them?"

"Never! For if the human understanding is immense, yet it is not infinite. We have seen many discoveries and marvels; our great-grandchildren will witness yet many more; but these will not be produced in any more developed sense than that which I just now indicated to you. The first causes will ever rest unknown to them as for us."

"But where are the proofs which prove the existence of the soul, and render it palpable to the eyes of the understanding?"

"The eyes of the heart, do they not equal those of the understanding?" quickly answered the count. "What! You feel within yourself a soul which thinks and which loves, which possesses in itself a longing for happiness, a thirst for truth, so utterly beyond the happiness and the truths of this world that it can only be a _souvenir_ or a revelation, from on high, of something purer and more perfect; you love the good and you spurn the evil, even to self-sacrifice; nay, more, you prefer death to the evil; you hear in the depths of your heart that powerful voice which cries to all humanity that the soul cannot die; and yet you ask for a proof of the existence of this soul, and of its immortality! Death is visible to us on every side. He menaces us; he presses upon us; all that is above, beneath, on each side of us, is dead or dying. {798} Man alone drives back before him that supreme law of final decay and oblivion; he whose life is comparatively much shorter than that of all other existences in this world, he alone hopes for an eternity which has no type here below, and which he could not even have conceived in himself, had it not been revealed to him. Surrounded by errors, he dreams the truth; wretched in this life, he dreams of a happiness without alloy; mortal, he dreams of immortality. Is not all this an infallible proof of his future destiny? God, who created man, would not he be both cruel and unjust had he given him all these profound aspirations toward a future state of happiness, only to plunge him finally in the abyss of eternal death? That secret voice speaks to you also, my friend; it resounds in the silence of your heart, and offers to you, as it does to others, its consoling hopes. Why do you not listen to it? When you saw before you, pale and discolored, destined to an inexorable decay, the body of her whom you so much loved; when the mouth that had so lately spoken to you, closed for ever; when those eyes, in which you had ever read their tenderness, became fixed, dull, and without expression; when that hand, which had but a moment before sought yours to press it for a last time, fell for ever powerless, equally insensible to the kisses with which you covered it, and to your tears, which rained on it--" Here the baron, without trying to hide his emotion, dried, with the back of his hand, the tears that this recollection of his beloved Gertrude caused him. The count continued: "That mouth, those eyes, that hand, they are the same; but where is the soul which animated them? Did you not then hear that interior voice which called with yet greater force, Thou shalt see her again? That body which the earth will hide to-morrow is but the form, and not the essence--the outward shape, but not the living spirit. A soul which you loved, and which rendered to thee an equal affection, animated that form, and rendered it palpable to your senses; that soul has fled, and the body falls back lifeless. The outward form rests here motionless and insensible, but the soul has remounted toward that celestial country where it shall await your coming, ready again to love you with an affection which shall have to suffer no second separation. And this is so true, my friend, that even whilst you deny this consciousness that the soul has of its future life and of its existence, you yourself obey that feeling; for you are faithful, not to the simple memory of Gertrude, but to Gertrude whom you feel to be still living, though far distant from you, and you desire to be able to say to her, when the moment of your meeting shall come: 'Thou seest that no other love has ever been mingled with thine in my heart; my own beloved one, thou didst wait for me, and I am come as full of thy recollection and of thy love as on that day when thou didst leave me.'"

Whilst the count was thus speaking, the baron had literally hidden himself in clouds of smoke, out of which came forth, by and by, a voice, trembling and changed by deep emotion, which answered:

"Ah! that I could believe as you do! In taking away from men these consoling thoughts, the materialists cried loudly that they were but working for the happiness of humanity yet wrapped in the shades of superstition; whilst, in truth, they were but plunging it into a gulf yet more profound and more implacable; for there is no real happiness possible where there exists a constant fear of losing that happiness. {799} I know very well that the error was much more pleasant than the truth, and that in place of the hope, perhaps false, but certainly full of consolation, to re-find our friends one day, they have left us but the terrible certainty of having for ever lost them, and that they leave us with the heavy burden of misery which is crushing human nature, after having broken the very support that aided man to bear its weight. Now that the evil is done, how remedy it? And if I do not believe, what must I do that I may believe?"

"Acknowledge humbly our utter helplessness; humble the pride of an imperfect reason, which is irritated by the thought that there is something above it; listen to our conscience which speaks within us; and then, meekly kneeling down before the God who has created the universe, repeat to him, with simplicity and faith, these words of the blind man in the gospel, who cried, 'Lord, that I may receive my sight!' God is not deaf to persevering prayer. Pray, therefore, and you shall see likewise."

"Certainly," said the baron, "if I saw, I should at once believe; but who ever saw a soul?"

"My great-grandfather did," answered the count.

"You are joking."

"Not at all. Adolphus Shrann, my great-grandfather, saw not only one soul, but even two!"

"He was dreaming, then."

"No, for he knew what he was going to see, and that thought alone was sufficient to keep him awake."

"Ah! then in that case somebody made a jest of him, and by some optical delusion caused him to believe that he had seen a veritable supernatural vision."

"No, I assure you it was not so," replied the count. "I am determined to relate the history to you in full, this evening; and," added he, with a voice changed by the ardent friendship that he felt for the baron, "I should esteem myself really happy if its recital could cause you to kneel down side by side with me before the altar of that God whom you are so worthy to know. It is but there that we are separated, and did you know all that my true friendship suffers in the thought that, after living these long years together, and after having shared all the trials and the pains of this life until our old age, notwithstanding this, I should yet be alone when the hour comes to receive the recompense. Ah! my dear Frederic, that single thought would suffice to empoison the joys of paradise."

Here the two friends warmly shook hands, and after having again replenished their tankards and their pipes, the count commenced the story that you are going to hear.

"You know," said the count, "that the Shrann family has always been cited as one of the most fruitful in all Germany."

"And you! you certainly have not derogated from the example of your ancestors," said the baron.

"Neither had the Count Franz, the same who was raised from the rank of baron to that of count by Ferdinand III., in 1645, since he was the father of fifteen children, eight boys and seven girls; and of these lads Adolphus, the seventh son, was the only one who remained to perpetuate the name and race, for the others gave their lives to defend their country and the empire. But if this numerous offspring was an honor to the family, it was also a great cause of anxiety to the count; it being a fact that though a numerous family be a source of fortune to a poor farmer, such is not the case with a poor nobleman; and it was no slight task to place advantageously all these children, so that they might worthily bear and uphold their family name. {800} Count Franz made, therefore, the most active endeavors to marry his daughters and to establish his sons; and he succeeded as well as he had hoped, since only one son remained at home, and that was Albert, the youngest child; nor did the future of this the last scion of his race much disturb the count, destined as he was, by him, from his very youth, to enter the church. But divine Providence often smiles at and overthrows our wisest calculations, and this is what occurred in Albert's case; for, notwithstanding the serious tendency given to his education, it was found that of the eight sons of the count this, the youngest, showed the greatest courage and taste for war. This martial spirit was the great despair of his tutor; for the lad left on the smallest pretext his studies and his books to play with an old rusty sword that he had found in one of the lumber-rooms of the castle, and with this he amused himself for hours, fencing against his desk or stool, and shouting all the war cries and songs that he had heard or read. When the vexed tutor complained of his pupil's conduct to the count, and of his little attention to his more serious studies, joined to his openly expressed contempt for them, the count answered, 'Bah! never mind; time will change all this, and you know that it is only natural that he should have imbibed a little of the family taste for war.' The seventh son, Adolphus, likewise distinguished himself by his recklessness of danger and by his great courage. This conformity of tastes, yet more than the similarity of their ages, had closely united these the two youngest brothers together; so that when the day came that the younger saw the elder leave home as a lieutenant in the army, to engage in that life of adventure and danger of which they had so often talked together, he was seized with a yet stronger repugnance to the future destined for him. The prospect of spending his days in the retirement of the cloister, instead of sharing with his brother the glorious achievements of a soldier's life, inspired him with not only a strong distaste for this future, but even with an aversion to all that then surrounded him. Albert fell into a great despair and lethargy; no longer did his tutor dread that rusty sword with which Albert had been wont to frighten him; not that his studies progressed any better for that; for although he read with pleasure the Iliad and the AEneid, he shrunk back with distaste from the study of theology, and when any observations were made to him on the subject, alleged that 'he should always know enough to cause him to die from _ennui_.' Not that the sentiment of religious feeling was dead within him, far from that; he was, on the contrary, animated with the liveliest and most sincere faith; nor was it that he felt an invincible repugnance to the obligations of the priesthood, for he was generous, sober, charitable, and patient, and therefore esteemed slightly the sacrifices that the ecclesiastical state requires. What he disliked and dreaded above all was a life of uniformity and of repose, such as seemed to him the life of a priest. This antipathy to the future for which he was destined grew from day to day, when, unable at last to fight any longer against his inclinations, he armed himself with all his resolution, and respectfully represented to his father his invincible dislike to becoming a priest, and asked of him the favor of being allowed to become a soldier. {801} Great was the discomfiture of the count on hearing this demand. What was he to do? he who had made all his arrangements in order that Albert might become a bishop; and here was this son who in place of bearing the mitre and pastoral staff, desired nothing less than to wield the sword and don the coat of mail.

"'It is very perplexing,' at last answered the count, after having scratched his ear several times; 'this idea of yours completely upsets all my plans; but rather than see you become a bad priest it shall be as you desire. Although,' again added he with a heavy sigh, 'it is very perplexing.'

"Albert, after having again explained to his father all the reasons for his repugnance to the life of a priest, continued, 'You see, my dear father, that it is not a taste for the pleasures of the world that drives me from the priesthood; it is only my dislike to the monotony of such a life that hinders me from embracing it. My vocation leads me to follow a career of danger and of change, and not one of ease and uniformity. But I think that there is a means of conciliating the ideas that your tenderness had suggested for me and my own tastes.'

"'I desire nothing better than that,' answered the count with visible chagrin, 'but how to do so, that is the question. I wish you to become a bishop, and you desire to become a captain; now, we are no longer in the days when bishops wore a suit of mail inside their robes.'

"'That is true, dear father; but you could place me in a position to become one day a knight-commander,' (here the count lifted up his head with an air of satisfaction.) 'The order of St. John of Jerusalem,' continued Albert, 'is a glorious order, assimilating to the church by its vows and its constitutions, and to the army by its obligations and labors. The Turks are now menacing Christendom; what more glorious use can one make of one's sword than to defend one's brothers in Jesus Christ, and to oppose one's self against the barbarity of the Mussulman, who already regards Europe as a wild beast does his prey? What more glorious destiny than to consecrate one's courage and one's life to force back even to the very sands of Asia those hordes of infidels whose domination, similar to a pestilential atmosphere, has brought ruin and death upon the fertile countries where it extends?

"'If, then, as I hope, you will consent to my desires, I shall find in that career the occasion to place in a yet higher rank the glorious name that you have given me; and thus both my ancestors and yourself shall have reason to be proud of their descendant."

"My worthy ancestor, on hearing this proposition, felt a similar satisfaction to that which a man would feel who, after being shut up in a chest during some hours, could at last stretch his limbs out again in liberty. Therefore was it that he seized eagerly a proposition which drew him out of a great difficulty; for between ourselves, be it said, the worthy man was more accustomed to fighting than to solving difficult questions. It was easy for the count to prove the sixteen quarters of nobility which the rules of the order required for the admission of Germans; moreover, he had several friends in the order whose influence he made use of; nothing, therefore, opposed itself to the realization of Albert's desires; and, in consequence, a few weeks after the above related conversation, he left Germany, and became page to Nicholas Coroner, then Grand Master of the order, and Governor of Malta. {802} In this position he did not fail to make himself very soon remarked by his dauntless courage and impetuous audacity. The requisite occasions did not fail him; each day the galleys of the order darted from their ports, as the eagle from his eyrie, and, powerful as the eagle, seized on some one of the innumerable Turkish pirates which were then ravaging the coasts of the Mediterranean, burning villages, and carrying off their wretched inhabitants to reduce them into a painful and degrading slavery. In this manner the order rendered the most important services to Europe, whilst the most adventurous spirit in it found means, in this incessant warfare, to satisfy his thirst for danger. Albert, ardent and indefatigable, scorning danger and braving Death, who seemed to shrink back before so much bravery and audacity, fought so often and so well, that scarcely was the time of his novitiate finished, than, by the general consent of his companions in arms, and the approbation of the grand master, he was created knight. In truth, it was impossible to show more valor and self-diffidence. This latter quality shows forth the more, that it was not an ordinary virtue in the order. Some years thus rolled on, during which the bravery of Albert had caused him to be known and remarked in all the commanderies of Europe; but the time was come when at length he should appear on a field more worthy of his talents.

"I will not here give you a recital of the events which brought the troops of Mohammed IV. under the walls of Vienna; since, in the first place, you recollect them as well as I do; and in the second place, it is too sad a thought for him who feels within him a soul truly German, to reflect that there was a day when German hearts beat with fear before the standards of Mohammed! At the time when the Hungarians, with a blindness that even their excess of patriotism does not excuse, called into the heart of Europe those born enemies of European civilization, Albert was in Germany. At the first news which reached him of the march of Mustapha on Vienna, he hurried to the commanderies that were nearest to him, and animating the zeal of the knights, united together without great difficulty a few of his companions, with whom he hastened on to that city. They reached Vienna on the very day that Leopold I. left it; and terrible was the consternation then reigning in that town, abandoned by those who ought to have been the first to face the danger and animate the courage of others by their example.

"The brave Count of Staremberg commanded the fortress which he did not dare hope to save, although he was determined to die in its defence. The aid that Albert brought was joyfully accepted by him; for he had but eight or ten thousand men to defend the city against the Turkish army, whose number was three hundred thousand; and besides this, the city was badly provisioned and insufficiently armed. Nevertheless, the defence was organized in the best manner possible; arms were distributed to all the citizens; and even the schoolboys were taught to carry arms, and perform the active service of the defence of the walls; whilst the entire population determined to suffer famine, and all the other horrors of a prolonged siege, rather than yield tamely to the enemy. These preparations made, they awaited the infidels; nor did they wait long; for in a few days after the departure of the emperor, the Turkish army encamped before Vienna, and opened its first trench. {803} Then began in earnest that terrible siege. Albert performed prodigies of valor; now directing a sortie, then driving back an assault, ever in the foremost rank, he, as it were, multiplied himself, going on every side; he foresaw and provided against all emergencies; his courage excited even the most timid, whilst his unchangeable calm reassured their fears. In the midst of all this peril, which seemed endless, he alone seemed at his ease; so much so, that the Count of Staremberg used to say, 'Oh! that I had only one hundred knights like him; for then, in place of resting here blocked up, like a rat in his hole, I would drive back, and follow up these three hundred thousand Turks to the very walls of Constantinople!' During all this time, notwithstanding the pressing demands of the Pope, Innocent IX., and in spite of the necessity which bound the other Christian nations to prevent Vienna's falling into the hands of the infidels, the aid so much needed was but slowly organized. Already had the siege lasted two months, and nothing had yet happened to relieve the despair of the wretched inhabitants, already weakened by famine. There seemed to them no alternative between a cruel and lingering death and a yet more painful slavery. Almost were they reduced to the last extremities. It was quite impossible to obtain provisions, and the ammunition was nearly exhausted, whilst many of the cannon had become useless for service; and yet no voice was heard that spoke of surrender. Soldiers and citizens, alike excited by the example and firmness of the chiefs, supported with courage and resignation all the horrors of a desperate defence. At last the signals and banners of King John Sobieski were seen from the walls as he came to their rescue, leading the combined forces of Europe. It was time! The King of Poland, notwithstanding the immense inferiority of his troops in point of numbers, hesitated not a moment to take the most favorable position for giving battle to the enemy. Mustapha, on his side, divided his troops into two divisions, the one destined to make a last and desperate assault upon the city, and to enter it by main force through the breaches already made in its walls; whilst the second division was to stop the passage of Sobieski, and to hinder him from giving any aid to the besieged. But the impetuosity of the attack of the Christians was such that the battle became but a rout on the side of the Mussulmans, as they fled before their pursuers on every side, and were as soon and as completely dispersed as is a wisp of straw before a hurricane. Vienna free, Europe breathed again, being once more delivered from the immediate fear of the crescent, whilst awaiting the day when the Mussulman should be for ever driven back to the arid sands from whence he came. This heroic defence spread a new lustre upon the arms and reputation of the order. But none of its knights had acquired a similar renown to that of Albert. The name of this young warrior was in every mouth, his souvenir in every heart, and he shared with John Sobieski the enthusiastic ovation made by the Viennese to their deliverers. The loudest acclamations of admiration and gratitude greeted him during the day that he accompanied the King of Poland, who, still covered with the blood of his enemies, went in solemn state to the cathedral of St. Stephen, there to assist at the Te Deum which was sung in thanksgiving to God for this miraculous delivery of the city from the Turks. {804} Mustapha, forced to make such a speedy retreat, had left in the possession of the Christians all his treasures, tents, and baggage. Among the spoil was found the standard of the Prophet. This, it was decided, should be offered to the pope as a gage and as a memorial of the victory, and it was Albert who was chosen to perform this honorable mission. His old father nearly died with joy on learning of the glorious renown of his son; and I leave you to guess if he did not praise himself in his heart for not having resisted the desires of Albert. The old count foresaw in the future his family giving a grand-master to the Order of St. John, and he trembled with happiness in thinking of the honor which would thus result to the Shrann race and name. In fact, one could hardly say where would have stopped the worldly honors of Albert, had not God reserved for him a yet more sweet and glorious recompense for his labors in his service."

At this point of his story, the count took a few minutes' repose, minutes that were fully employed, to judge by the manner in which he emptied the tankard that stood before him; and as the two friends did nothing without each other's aid or example, the baron hastened to imitate his friend; and when his tankard left his lips, there did not remain sufficient in it to satisfy the thirst of a wren. Then, grasping with a firm hand the immense jug of beer which awaited their good pleasure, he filled his own glass and passed the jug on to the count, who, with an equal dignity and silence, took his share. It is true that the baron paid but a slight attention to all these details of a family history that the count so complacently related to him; perhaps he was getting impatient for the appearance of the two souls that had been promised him; but he let no indication of his impatience escape him, and continued to smoke on with great tranquillity, puffing forth clouds of smoke which seemed timed to the cadenced sounds of an old clock that stood beside him, whose sculptured oak case would have delighted the taste of an antiquary. At length the count recommenced: "The Turks appeared to have abandoned their projects upon Germany, but the war yet continued with activity between themselves and the order and the Venetians on the shores of the Mediterranean. Notwithstanding the greatest sacrifices, and the most valiant efforts on the part of the Turks, Candia had fallen into the hands of the order; a new expedition was then resolved upon to lay siege to Coron, and Hector de La Tour de Maubourg, having been chosen as its commander, he made choice of Albert for his lieutenant.

"Upon one of the galleys that the pope had joined to the allied fleets of the Knights of St. John and of the Venetians, the young Giovanni Balbo, only heir to one of the most distinguished names in the republic of Venice, had been sent out by his father. This illustrious family had long been a friend to our house, and, in fact, we counted several alliances between the two families. When, therefore, Giovanni learnt that Albert was in the fleet, he made several attempts to become acquainted with him; and succeeded so well, that in a short time they became the greatest friends in the world.

"On this event, so slight in its appearance, nevertheless depended the destiny of Albert. You must have remarked, my friend, that it is the same with us all. The acts the most important in our lives, those which decide our future, and from which result our happiness or misery in this world, have always as their first commencement, some circumstance which is perfectly indifferent in itself, but the results of which have an influence on our entire destinies.

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"One would say that divine Providence mocked our proud reason, in thus making use of events which at first sight seem so utterly unfitted to arrive at the end which it proposes to itself; and I might even add, that this impenetrable mystery would alone suffice to eyes less wilfully blinded than your own, to prove the existence of an unseen power that is unrestrained by human laws and prejudices. Does God owe to each one of us a miracle? Ought he to suspend for each individual man the eternal laws which govern the universe? Can we not believe in him unless we see the very rivers flow back to their sources? Does he not manifest himself to us at each instant of our lives, on each side of us and in us? Is not the admirable connection of events which exists in this world sufficient to make the certitude of his power and of his incessant action shine forth to the vision of the soul, as shines forth before the eyes of the body the brilliant multitude of planets that have each their appointed path in the wide space of heaven? The siege was terrible, and its success cost to the Order of Malta one and twenty of its bravest knights; Hector de la Tour de Maubourg was among the number of the dead, and Albert, who had flown to his side to protect him, had fallen covered with wounds, which caused his life to be despaired of. His youth, the strength of his constitution, and, above all, the tender care taken of him by his friend Giovanni, finally triumphed over the severity of his wounds, and as soon as he was sufficiently recovered to bear the fatigues of the voyage, Giovanni brought him to Venice to visit his family, who received him with the warmest hospitality. I have told you that Giovanni was the only heir of the Balbo family; this was but partly true, since there were two daughters, Flaminia, who had then attained her eighteenth year, and Antonia, who was but seventeen.

"Nothing could be more unlike than these two sisters, Flaminia and Antonia. Although both were in looks and in character equally charming, Heaven had gifted them with very dissimilar talents and tastes. Nevertheless, this did not impede the existence of an intimate friendship between these two natures so diametrically opposed; and, later in their lives, it proved no hinderance to a complete confidence. It is thanks to this confidence--that arose between them one day by reason of an imperious necessity of mutual aid and sympathy--that I can now describe the more intimate particularities of this history. Antonia, as you may judge from the portrait of her hanging in the room, was one of that sort of beauties that seem to overflow with vigor and life. Her complexion slightly brunette; her eyes of a deep black, ever glistening under her well-arched eye-brows, notwithstanding the depth of her eye-lashes; her mouth ever smiling, with its full and firmly designed lips; her perfectly chiselled nose, whose nostrils dilated at every instant; and, above all, the extreme vivacity of her face, where was portrayed, as in a mirror, every emotion that agitated her, even the most fugitive; all in her appearance indicated one of those vigorous natures that have need of real physical exertion. An over-rich development of physical forces impedes the flight of the imagination. Thus, Antonia was always remarked for the vivacity of her impressions, for the impetuosity of her sentiments, and for the sallies of her quick and brilliant spirit. {806} But that world of reverie, peopled with vague and indefinable forms; that world illumined by a supernatural light, where we catch the glimpses of a happiness unknown here below; that world which is created by the soul and colored by the imagination, was to her quite unknown. Whilst her sister delighted in all this, and listened with her whole heart to those harmonious voices which spoke to her of a coming happiness penetrating and sweet as the joys of heaven, Antonia was bounding like a young fawn among the trees of their garden, or, mounted on a spirited horse, rapidly ascended the paths of the mountains that surrounded the town. The same impetuosity was to be remarked in her sympathies and antipathies; she could not moderate her expression of them, nor did she even seek to impose upon herself a useless constraint on this subject. On the other hand, Flaminia seemed already to bear in her entire appearance the impress of those sorrows that she was destined to suffer. Her look, so sweet and sad even in its smile, was half veiled with her eyelids, and gave to her face an indefinable expression of melancholy. That expression could be again found in her delicately shaped mouth, and even in her movements full of languor and grace. Whilst Antonia, lively and petulant, employed by every outward effort the too abundant forces of her life and youth, Flaminia seemed to place hers in reserve for the terrible moment of need. She concentrated in the depths of her soul all her impressions; nor could she give to herself a reason for so doing. She had the consciousness of her exquisite sensibility, and protected it, under the shield of indifference and affected calm, against all contact that could have wounded it. But under this apparent indolence an attentive eye could have easily recognized the marks of an ardent soul and of a strong nervous organization. A sudden flame would at moments lighten up those glances usually veiled in indifference, the soft and musical voice took an accent of enthusiasm, and her whole expression changed, being animated by the power of an emotion that she no longer restrained, and whose vibrations were the more violent, because her soul, far from pouring itself on all that surrounded her, as did Antonia's, was one of those that at a given hour in life is destined to concentrate all its force on a single thought and on an only affection. Outwardly cold and impassible, her excessive sensibility showed itself by scarcely perceptible signs; but later in life, happy to find at her side a heart filled with similar ideas, all this ice melted. Is there not in us, at the moment when life commences, that is to say, at the epoch when the soul awakes from the long slumber of infancy, a vague presentiment of our future destinies? For the same reason that we have so often seen the bravest soldiers tremble on the morning of a battle, feeling beforehand that death will call them during the day, is there not likewise in us a voice which warns us of the trials that we shall have later in our lives to endure? The birds have a presentiment of the coming storm, even when the atmosphere is yet full of splendor; the very insects that crawl upon the ground foresee in the autumn the rigors of the approaching winter, and envelop their eggs with a double covering of silk; and why should man be less favored than the birds or insects? Why should he be the only creature that is delivered up, as it were, with his hands and feet bound, to the rigors of the future? {807} It is possible that Flaminia obeyed that sentiment of moral modesty that causes us to hide from all eyes our better qualities--those secret riches of our hearts, that we may lavish them without stint upon the hidden object that we have chosen. She knew herself to be incapable of half-loving any object, and she felt that her heart was a fragile instrument; that, if touched by a skilful hand, it would render harmonious sounds, but that it would infallibly break under a rude or awkward touch; and she wished to preserve it from such a fate. None of those surrounding her suspected the power of this instrument; on the contrary, her great outward calmness passed for the evident indication of a certain coldness of heart, whilst the expansive nature of her sister was considered as the sign of an extreme sensibility. Flaminia was much grieved at being thus misunderstood, and very often, in the silence of the night, bitter tears flowed from her eyes; very often the ivory crucifix which hung at the head of her couch, saw opening before it that soul so full of purity and love, that came to seek, at that inexhaustible source, a present consolation and a future strength. Sometimes she fancied that she heard in herself the distant mutterings of the heart's tempest; then she prayed with ardor, almost feverishly, as she listened to the murmur within her of those mysterious voices which warned her of a near peril, and told her to spread around her those riches of affection full of loving ardor, that then devoured her, and that one day would consume her. In these moments of instinctive alarm, she drew herself yet closer to God, hiding herself under the shadow of his protecting hand, ever lifted up over those who with faith invoke it; and then she felt herself reassured. At such moments as these was it that she felt herself to be so completely alone, notwithstanding the parental tenderness that surrounded her, and she suffered by this loneliness. In truth, Flaminia was right--she was alone; for though both the Prince and Princess Balbo cherished their daughter, yet time seemed to have passed on for her alone, and not for them. The child had merged into the young girl; the _naïve_ graces of the infant had given place to the more opened charms of youth, yet they had remarked nothing of all this. They dreamt not even that parental affection ought to be modelled after the child of whom it is the object, and ought to transform itself and grow with that child. They did not understand that the protecting tenderness accorded to the infant who shelters himself under it as does a bird in its nest, becomes insufficient for the heart that time has developed, and that has need of leaning upon sentiments less protecting and more friendly. One of the most dangerous shoals in the difficult task of educating children, is doubtless that of noticing the first moments when the child whom we have held until then under our hand, and caused, as it were, to live of our own life, lays aside the trammels of infancy, and seeks to fly with his own wings. It is then that we ought to know how so to modify our affection that we may inspire that freedom and that confidence in ourselves that will protect this second period of life, as a salutary fear protects the first.

"Now for the development of these sentiments, so fragile and delicate, we must seize the instant when the child commences to become a man, when he first feels awakening in him thoughts and sensations that are his own, and not simply the echo or reflection of our own. {808} It is at that moment, and then only, that we can ever arouse such confidence. If we allow this fleeting and critical period of his existence to escape us, never can we hope to recall it; and however powerful may be his sense of filial affection, the child will never again show us that confidence that we have repulsed; we shall have left his young heart, just awakening to the dawn of life, in an isolation that is always painful, and oftentimes dangerous, since it lends to the already strong voice of the passions the charms of solitude and mystery. Unhappily--and this is almost always through an ill-advised tenderness--we too often close our eyes to this transformation; habit blinds us, and the child escapes from our control. Such had been the case with Flaminia. Her mother was one of the most virtuous and excellent of women; the prince, as I have already told you, adored his children; but both of them, as well as Giovanni, who was fifteen years older than the eldest of his sisters, regarded these two lovely girls but as the two children who so lately had charmed them by their _naïveté_ and grace. This situation, in which the two sisters shared, should have sooner given rise to a confidence equal to their friendship; but besides that their difference of tastes often separated them, no exterior event had yet happened to show them the power of their mutual affection and the community of ideas that ought to be its consequence. Thus Flaminia lived alone and gave herself up without reserve to the sweet charm of vague reverie; she listened with a deep joy to those mysterious aspirations that spoke to her of happiness, nor could she assign any form to these thoughts, that, all uncertain as they were, yet threw her into a delicious trouble. She sought solitude, and spent long hours sitting at the balcony of her window, her forehead leaning on her long white hands, while her eyes filled with tears that had no sorrow as their source, as she regarded the deep and large purple shadows which the setting sun cast on the blue waters of the Mediterranean. Although she was unconscious of the meaning of these frequent reveries, and would have been unable to explain the reason of that melancholy, so full of mingled pain and pleasure, into which she loved to plunge herself, yet she hid most carefully from every eye the state of her mind, dreading above all things lest any one should suspect the happiness she felt in yielding to its charm. At the moment when providence was about to bring together Albert and Flaminia, he also found himself in some such a state of mind as that which I have just portrayed. A glorious renown had at first seemed to him the only thing in this world worthy of envy; but that idol so ardently followed had been, little by little, despoiled of its brilliant _prestige_; the nearer he approached it, the more faint and dim became the aureole of splendor with which he had believed it surrounded; and when he at last saw himself in full possession of his desire, when the renown of his name had resounded to the most distant commanderies of his order, which regarded him as its firmest support and most assured hope; then he saw with affright that a glorious name is insufficient in itself, and that it must be regarded in a Christian life, or at least in connection with some one who is dear to us, and whose heart would rejoice and sympathize with our glory. When Albert at last understood the truth, he felt himself sad and unhappy; for be looked vainly around him--he was alone! {809} An immense void then made itself felt in his soul--a void that even his glory was unable to hide from him, and which friendship was powerless to fill. Like Flaminia, he felt himself isolated on the earth; but while her solitude was sweetened by a hope as vague as her thoughts and desires, that of Albert was a bottomless abyss, full of discouragement and despair.

"The profound darkness of night then fell upon his soul, an obscurity similar to those sombre and cold nights in winter, when the eye sees not a single star piercing the sky covered with clouds; and when the sad heart hears but the moans of the wind that bends the tops of the bare trees as it passes over them, mingled with the boding cry of the birds of prey which slowly wheel around in the thick and misty atmosphere. A lassitude had fallen on him similar to that which a traveller feels at the sight of a straight and monotonous road which extends as far as the eye can reach in a dry and burning plain. Seeing nothing around him that seemed worthy either a desire or an effort, he allowed himself to be carried slowly on by time toward the common end; nor did he hasten that course by his vows; for even whilst he firmly believed in the joys of eternity, he felt not his soul drawn toward them. If he had run forward to meet death, it was through his natural intrepidity; for he felt in its presence but the same desolating indifference that he had shown at the moment of his recovery to life. Such were the secret sentiments of Albert and Flaminia when their mutual destiny placed them for the first time in presence of each other in the ancient _salon_ of the Palace Balbo. We are both of us, my dear Frederic, so far distant from the time when our hearts first experienced these impressions of affection, that there now remains to us but a very slight recollection."

"You are deceived," interrupted the baron; "from the day when for the first time I saw my poor Gertrude, until that when I placed her in her tomb, I have forgotten nothing of all that has passed between us. There is not an hour of that much-regretted time which is not present in my memory; not an incident, however slight it may have been, that I cannot recall in even its slightest details!"