Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

'I am the girl's father, and do not choose to give my consent; if that is not a sufficient reason, fancy any one you please. Cast a glance at your genealogy, and see how well a woodman's daughter would look among such a noble assemblage. Doves may not mate with eagles--that is _my_ opinion. Breathe not a single word about love to Giuliana, Herr Count; not a single whisper. Promise me this, upon your honour, or you shall never see her again.'

'Well,' replied Otto, 'for the present I cannot escape giving you the promise you require; but you must, and shall, withdraw your unreasonable objections.'

'Never, as long as I live. Nothing can make me alter my decision while I have life; and when I am dead, perhaps you will change your mind yourself.'

After this conversation, Otto determined, as soon as possible, to tear himself away from the vicinity of the beautiful Giuliana, that he might not be tempted to break the promise her singular father had wrung from him; but he also resolved, in the course of a very few years--under, he hoped, more propitious circumstances--to return, and seek future happiness in a marriage with the beautiful girl, to whom, he now felt convinced, his whole soul was bound by the most delightful and indissoluble of chains, and from whom, he thought, that only an absurd and obstinate whim was the cause of his present needless separation. He had not, as yet, said a single syllable to Giuliana of his feelings for her; but she had not failed to read them in his amorous glances, and perceived them in the warm interest he took in her, and in his pleasure at the congeniality of their minds and tastes. That she seemed to find new life in his society, that he had made a deep impression on her heart, and that her sentiments were an echo of his, were evident to him also; he saw that a word, a breath from his lips, of love, would develop the sweet feeling of affection, which she scarcely understood herself, and cause the opening rosebud to burst into the full-blown charming flower. If that word were not to be spoken, Otto knew that he must fly from the lovely girl. But he was angry at himself for not having resisted the opposition he had encountered from selfish tyranny, and for having bound himself by a promise, which he could not break without creating disunion and unhappiness in a family circle; a proceeding from which he shrank, even though he believed that despotic and unjust authority was exercised on one side. He determined, however, once more to endeavour to make Franz yield to his wishes; and while waiting for an opportunity of doing this, an event occurred which materially changed the face of affairs.

The celebrated painter, Carl van Mander, who was invited by Christian IV. from the Netherlands, to improve the arts in Denmark, resided for some time at Soroee, where he painted an altar-piece for the church. He was an ardent lover and studier of nature, and was anxious always to give truthful design and colouring to his pictures. This caused him often to introduce real portraits into his historical or Scripture pieces, and whenever he beheld a striking countenance he hastened to make a sketch of it, which he afterwards worked up to suit different subjects.

Thus the countenance of Italian Franz had often almost terrified him when he met him accidentally in the woods, and on one occasion he had seized an opportunity of sketching him while they were both sitting, among other chance visitors, in a little tavern to which the painter sometimes resorted for the purpose of seeing a variety of faces. Without considering that there might be any harm in so doing, the painter transferred the likeness of Franz to his altar-piece for the church of Soroee. The artist had gone, and the picture was put up in its proper place in church. Everyone, from far and near, hastened to see it, and Carl van Mander's 'Last Supper' was pronounced a masterpiece.

Italian Franz seldom attended church; he liked the doctrine of absolution, and the rites of the Roman Catholic Church, which he had joined in Italy; and there being none within reach of his residence, he had fitted up an oratory in his own house. When he felt indisposed, or his gloomy fits came on, he often lamented that no Catholic priest was near to give him absolution, or to administer extreme unction to him when he should be at the point of death. At such periods of excited feelings he would lock himself into his oratory, and, as he had no priest to whom to make his shrift, he would write his confessions in secret, with injunctions that the document should not be opened until after his death. He had often thought of taking a journey to the capital to see a priest, but had always put it off, and sometimes he seemed to forget altogether that he had anything to confess.

Franz had acquired in Italy a taste for the arts--he had become fond of paintings; therefore, when he heard that the new altar-piece was finished and hung up in the church, he felt a wish to see it, and agreed to accompany Count Otto to the morning service one Sunday. They entered just as the clergyman was finishing his sermon. He had been endeavouring to awaken to a sense of their sins the souls around him; and with fervent eloquence was likening those careless Christians, who heard the Word but did not obey it--who acknowledged Christ with their lips, but denied him in their actions--to Judas Iscariot, who, with a kiss, betrayed his kind Lord and Master.

Franz started at these last words. At that very moment his eyes fell on the altar-piece, in which he instantly beheld his own likeness in the face of Judas Iscariot, who sat like a traitor amidst the holy group.

'Yes, I am Judas!' he shrieked, in accents of agonized despair. 'Do you not all see that I am Judas? Why do ye not curse me? Why do ye not stone me? I am Judas--the execrable Judas!

The entire congregation turned and looked with horror at the frantic being, who stood like a maniac, his whole countenance fearfully distorted, gazing wildly at the picture over the altar, and who, at the first sound of the organ, rushed out of the church with a piercing cry, as if its deep tones had sounded on his ear like the last trumpet's blast.

Otto was so overwhelmed with astonishment at this extraordinary scene, that he stood for a time as if nailed to the floor of the church. When he remembered himself, and hastened after the unfortunate Franz, whom he now sincerely believed to be deranged in his intellects, and who, he feared, might commit self-destruction in his access of insanity, that individual was nowhere to be found. After he had in vain sought for him in the town, he decided on taking the road to the forest lodge, to see if he were there, and to prepare Giuliana to hear of the calamity, the existence of which he thought could no longer be doubted. As he pursued his way in much anxiety, a terrible suspicion crossed his mind--a dread, which Franz's strange conduct, and his last astounding outbreak, rendered but too likely to be realized. When, on following the path to the left through the wood, he approached the shores of the lake, he beheld a crowd of peasants gathering round a tree, on which some miserable person had hanged himself, but whom, in their terror at the sight, and their horror of a suicide, they had not attempted to cut down.

It was Italian Franz, who thus fearfully had carried out his insane fancy that he was Judas, and who had put an end to himself in this dreadful manner. Count Otto had the body cut down instantly, and he resorted to every means of restoring animation, but in vain, for life was quite extinct. With many entreaties, and considerable bribes, Otto at length prevailed on some of the peasants to remove the corpse, at dusk, to the town, where it was quietly buried in the churchyard, and the affair was hushed up as much as possible.

Giuliana was sitting alone at the forest lodge when Count Otto entered, and broke to her, cautiously and kindly, the sad intelligence of her father's sudden death; but he considerately withheld from her the knowledge of the mode of his death, as well as the strange scene in the church. But when she insisted on seeing the body, and was told that it was already consigned to the grave, she herself suspected what Otto had taken such pains to conceal from her. Her tears then flowed in silence, and in silence she prayed, with her whole soul, to the Almighty for the salvation in eternity of her unhappy parent.

While Giuliana sat absorbed in her sorrow, Otto, who had constituted himself the guardian and adviser of the orphan girl, undertook the duty of looking through the papers of her late father. During his search among them, he found, in a hidden drawer, the secret confession, which the unfortunate deceased had written in his moments of wretchedness and self-upbraiding. He carried it privately away with him, and read it when quite alone.

When Giuliana met Otto again, she almost forgot her own grief in her distress at the deep affliction which she saw in his countenance. She anxiously inquired if he were ill, and she forced herself to battle against her own dejection in order to cheer him, and restore peace and happiness to his heart. But the more warmly and affectionately she showed him her sympathy and solicitude--the nearer their common sorrow seemed to bring their hearts, and to accelerate the moment, when their deep, though unconfessed mutual attachment need no longer be pent up, but all, of which neither could doubt, might be openly admitted--the more unaccountable became Otto's melancholy and singular conduct. He avoided all intimate conversation. He assumed a measured calmness of manner, and a degree of distance in his communication with her, which she would have believed to arise from coldness, indifference, or a narrow-minded regard to their different positions in life, had she not before observed such unmistakable marks of his love for her, and known how little he cared for the distinctions of rank, and how capable he was of overcoming all such obstacles if he pleased.

'I can no longer delay my departure,' he said to her one day, when the constraint which prevailed between them was most painful to both; 'but I am not now going to Italy--America is my destination.' He then entreated the astonished Giuliana to accept of a large portion of his fortune, in order to secure her from all pecuniary adversity in the future, and which would enable her to purchase a small property in the country, or to reside in the capital with a respectable family, to whom she was related, and who would receive her kindly.

Giuliana could hardly suppress her tears, but she forced herself to smile, while she declined any assistance.

'I thank you, Herr Count,' she said, with composure--'I thank you much for the sympathizing kindness you, unasked, have shown me. I have but one wish in this world, and that is to see my native country again. Here I cannot live, and if you have any benevolent desire to benefit me, Herr Count, have the goodness to procure for me a situation as waiting-maid, or in some other capacity, in a family who are going to Italy. You once yourself proposed this; and I venture to hope that perhaps you will, if possible, indulge me in my dearest wish, now that I am left a solitary being in the world.'

'Well, then,' said the count, after a moment's reflection, 'since your longing to revisit your native country is so strong that you cannot live happily anywhere else, I will myself accompany you thither, and we shall adopt my original plan. You shall travel as companion to my aunt, and go with her and her children to Rome and Naples, where I shall see you safely settled in some agreeable family circle before I set off on my more distant voyage.'

Giuliana's childish delight at the hope of seeing the much-loved land of her birth could not, however, overcome her deep, secret sorrow at the alteration which had taken place in Count Otto; and her wounded feelings would not permit her to accept of his offer, for her sake, to relinquish for a time the visit to another continent, on which he had so recently determined. She entreated him, therefore, earnestly not to delay his voyage, but allow her to attend his aunt and her children, without himself accompanying them.

But he had made up his mind to go, and he told her that, without _his_ escort, his aunt would not undertake to travel so far as Italy.

All was soon prepared for the journey. The aunt was informed of the count's plan for Giuliana, to which, fortunately, she was willing to agree. In a few days afterwards she made her appearance in her travelling carriage at the door of the principal hotel at Soroee; the count met her there, and took her and her children to the forest lodge, where they were introduced to their travelling companion, who immediately joined them, and who soon made a favourable impression on them all by her beauty and sweetness of manners.

The aunt had conjectured that there was some love affair between the young count and the pretty daughter of the sub-ranger, in whose neighbourhood he had remained so long, and she fancied that, in order to escape the taunts and gibes of the other members of his family, her nephew intended to marry Giuliana in a foreign country. Rumour had not failed to busy itself in the capital, by assigning a reason for the count's stay at Soroee. Poor Giuliana had been described sometimes as a simple peasant girl, who had allowed herself to be deluded by the gay count, and who believed his fine speeches, mistaking them for more honest ware; sometimes as an artful, half-Italian wood-nymph, who, under the mask of modesty and virtue, had enticed the hoodwinked young count into a snare, from which he could not escape.

His aunt had not troubled herself much about all this gossip; she educated her children herself, and had only accepted Giuliana's companionship because the count had made _that_ the condition of his escort, without which she would not have liked to have ventured on so long a journey.

Now, however, she was very curious to ascertain the exact nature of their connection, and found, to her great surprise, that they themselves avoided that degree of intimacy and freedom in behaviour which travelling together almost rendered necessary; and that, far from seeking each other, they rather seemed to shun every opportunity of being near each other, even though these often occurred by accident. On the other hand, she could not but remark the anxious attention, nay, even devotion, with which the count forestalled every wish of Giuliana; and the quiet, retiring manner in which she sought to take her place as an inferior among the travelling party, although in mind and manners fitted to be their equal. The expression of patient sadness in her countenance, which neither her youthful pleasure at approaching Italy, nor the enlivening effect of the frequent changes of scene during a long journey, seemed to chase away, soon won the heart of the good-natured baroness; and she was pleased to see that Giuliana had also become a favourite with her children. The young girl seemed to be always more at ease and more cheerful in the count's absence than when he was present. Giuliana had taken her mandolin with her in the carriage, and she often amused the children by playing on it, and singing for them. When they stopped at the different inns, and she was alone in her own room in the evening, the baroness sometimes heard her playing and singing there also, but not the lively airs she sang in the carriage. Her songs were all expressive of deep sadness, and if the baroness entered her room unexpectedly, she generally found the sweet songstress with tears in her eyes.

The count's melancholy surprised his aunt still more, as he had always been remarkable for his gaiety and high spirits. He would now sit for hours in the carriage without uttering a syllable, and when they were all enjoying themselves at the evening's repast, after the fatigues of the day, he would often start up and leave them, complaining of a violent headache.

However, when they had crossed the Simplon, and were descending into the paradise of Giuliana's dreams--when they beheld the rich plains where the vines festooned themselves gracefully around the elms--where the lovely lakes were studded with beautifully wooded islets, and the lofty hills reared their blue summits to the skies, all gloomy thoughts seemed to have vanished, and everyone gazed with delight on the enchanting view. Giuliana clapped her hands in her transport of joy, and seizing Otto's hand, she pressed it to her heart, while she exclaimed:

'May God bless and reward you, dear count! I shall never cease to thank you for affording me yonder sight, and this happy moment!'

Tears sprang to Otto's eyes, and throwing his arm round her, he pressed her suddenly with impetuosity to his heart; but as if frightened at this unpremeditated act, he immediately afterwards got out of the carriage, and thenceforth took a seat on the outside, where, he said, he could have a better view of the country.

This scene in the carriage, of which the baroness had been a witness, fully convinced her of Otto's suppressed passion for Giuliana; and soon after their arrival at Florence, some words spoken to herself in her own apartment by Giuliana, in which Otto was named in terms of deep attachment--and the words of a song which she sang in her solitude, all of which had been overheard by the baroness--proved to her that the same sentiments pervaded both their hearts, though both seemed to wish to conceal their feelings.

She had, in consequence, a serious conversation with Otto, and urged him to explain what was the reason of his conduct, and why he seemed thus to seek and to repress the poor girl's affection.

In reply, he placed before her the confession of Italian Franz, and then hastened out to order post-horses for Leghorn, where the American ship, by which he had engaged a passage, was lying almost ready to sail.

The baroness shut herself up in her own chamber, and read:

'I, Franz Ebbeson, born September--, anno Domini 1--, and, when this shall be read, dead, as I hope, in sincere repentance, and trusting to mercy hereafter, confess and make known, that in my irregular youthful days I burdened my soul with fearful sins, for which I pray that the mediation and 'good offices of the Holy Church may be granted, therewith to obtain pardon for me at the great day of judgment.

'For some years I attended the noble family of R--ske while they were travelling and residing in Italy. The count was very kind to me, and raised me from the situation of his servant to that almost of a friend. But, notwithstanding his goodness, I betrayed and wronged him, out of a criminal love for his beautiful wife. In his absence on a scientific tour in Sicily and the coast of Barbary, which lasted nearly two years, during which he had left his family to my care at Naples, T took advantage of the weakness and the kind condescension of the young countess. At the time of the count's return, the consequences of the countess's and my faithlessness were too evident; and she pretended illness to screen herself. The count, almost immediately after his arrival, was taken ill, and I was the only one whom he would allow to attend him. In my wretchedness at having plunged myself and the countess into a misfortune which would lead to inevitable disgrace, the Wicked One inspired me with a horrible thought--a dreadful temptation that my sinful soul could not chase away; and when I ought to have mixed a few drops of laudanum with the medicine the poor count was to take, my hand trembled, and more than a hundred drops fell into it. I was going to throw the medicine away, but it seemed as if Satan seized my hand, and--I carried the deadly mixture to my unfortunate master.

'"God reward you for your kind attention to me, Franz," he exclaimed; and he speedily fell into that deep sleep from which he never more was to awaken. For fifteen years I have borne alone the burden of this guilty secret, of which neither the repentant countess, nor her and my daughter Giuliana, had the slightest knowledge, though perhaps during our last journey together, the countess might have suspected it. On All Souls' Day--the day of my ill-requited master's death--I have for ten years past devoted myself to praying for his eternal salvation. On that solemn day may some purer spirit pray for me, and may God have mercy on my sinful soul!'

The paper fell from the hands of the baroness, but she instantly caught it up, and destroyed it.

'Then they are half-sister and brother!' she exclaimed. And she understood what had seemed poor Otto's strange conduct.

But did Giuliana know it also?

At that moment a letter was brought to her from the young count, in which he entreated her to conceal from Giuliana what it would be better she should never know, and to treat her with motherly kindness for his sake. He added, that he had himself provided for her future comfort in pecuniary matters. There was, however, a little note addressed to Giuliana enclosed, which he requested should only be given to her if it were necessary to calm her grief for his departure.

A few days after he had left them, Giuliana became extremely ill and the baroness, thinking it was better she should know the truth, handed her Otto's farewell letter, which ran as follows:

'EVER-BELOVED SISTER,--In this world we must separate, but yonder, where bride and bridegroom are as sister and brother, where there are no ties of blood, you will find the fond and faithful spirit, which is eternally bound to you, before Him who is Lord of the living and the dead.'

Giuliana outlived her grief for being separated from Otto, and learned to love him as an angel whom she would meet in future at the holy gates of the heavenly paradise. She retired into a convent dedicated to the Virgin Mary, and never forgot, on All Souls' Day, to pray for the repose of her unhappy father's spirit.

Count Otto returned no more to Europe. He died in a skirmish with some savage Indians. But by his papers which were sent to his family, it was evident that, unlike the more tranquil Giuliana, he had never overcome his unfortunate passion, but had carried that fatal attachment in its full force to his distant grave.

LISETTE'S CASTLES IN THE AIR.

FROM THE DANISH OF H. P. HOLST.

I have always considered a garret as one of the most poetical abodes on earth. Ye happy beings who, from that lofty altitude, can look down upon the paltry bustle of the world, do ye not also appreciate the advantages which ye possess? Envy not those whose cradles were rocked in palaces or gilded saloons, for their good fortune cannot be compared to yours. In these airy regions peace and freedom reign. Ye are surrounded with the purest atmosphere--ye have but to throw open your elevated casements to inhale the clear, fresh air, whilst the rich beneath you, in their close chambers, seek eagerly for one breath of it to refresh them, and assist their stifled respiration. No prying opposite neighbour watches you, or disturbs your peace: there is nothing except the swallow which builds its nest upon the roof, or the linnet that flutters before your window, and greets you with its song. Ye are raised far above all human misery, for none of it is apparent to your eye; the manifold sounds of the busy street--the itinerant vendor's varied cries--the rumbling of carriages and carts, scarcely reach your ears. Ah, happy tenants of those lofty regions! how frequently, and with what magnetic power, do ye not draw my glances upwards towards you!

Far up yonder--high--high--mounting towards the clouds--where the rosebush and the white curtains adorn the window, lives a little milliner girl, about seventeen years of age. Courteous reader, if you are not shocked at the idea of ascending that steep staircase, and these innumerable steps, we will visit her together. Be not afraid! Your reputation shall not suffer--I shall cast Peter Schlemil's cap over you--you shall see all, and be yourself unseen. You will! Then follow me, but be silent and discreet; it is a charming girl whom we are going to see.

We enter--hush! Make no noise, for Heaven's sake; Lisette is occupied. At this moment she is busy trying on, before the mirror, a bonnet of the newest fashion, which she has just finished making. This is one of the most important incidents in a milliner's life. It is to her of as much consequence as his pieces are to a dramatic writer; with every new bonnet which _she_ has constructed--with every new play which _he_ has composed--comes the deep anxiety, whether the work shall add another blossom to the garland of their fame, or shall despoil them of their _renommee_. Let us not disturb her, but rather let us take a survey of the little apartment which contains all her treasures.

If your eye be accustomed to rest on silken tapestry, rich carpets, elegant toilet, and costly work-tables, these principal embellishments of a young lady's boudoir, I would advise you somewhat to lower your ideas, for Lisette possesses none of these, nor does she feel the want of them. All that belongs to her is simple and frugal, but scrupulously clean and neat. The ceiling and the walls rival in whiteness the snowy coverlet which is spread over her couch. Near this stands a wardrobe, in which hang two dresses and a shawl; and on a chair close by lie a couple of caps and a straw hat, trimmed with gay ribbons. These form her little stock of habiliments. A large oaken table occupies the centre of the room; it is covered with pieces of _crepe_, silk, satin, artificial flowers, plaits of straw, patterns, a knife, and a pair of scissors. These are all her store, and all her apparatus. On a plain chiffonier lie a Psalm-book, a well-worn romance of Sir Walter Scott, some songs, and a little pamphlet, entitled 'The Ladies' Magic and Dream Book.' These comprise her whole library. I had nearly forgotten the most valuable article among her furniture--yon old lounging-chair, covered with morocco leather: I call it the most valuable, for _it_ was her only heirloom from her forefathers. A mirror is suspended over the chiffonier, before which Lisette is standing, fully engaged in taking a survey of herself. There is no mistaking the smile that is playing around her lips--the light that is beaming from her eyes. The critical examination has been satisfactory, and she is pleased with her own handiwork. And well may she be so; for the tasteful white silk bonnet casts a soft shade over her brow of ivory, and the rose-coloured _crepe_ with which it is trimmed seems pale when compared to her blooming cheek. I could venture to wager a thousand to one that Lisette's face is a hundred times prettier than that of the fair dame or damsel for whom this bonnet is intended. Doubtless this idea has struck _her_ also; see, she hastens to her wardrobe, and takes from it her light green shawl. She throws it around her shoulders, arranges it in graceful folds over her slender throat and fairy form, turns to the glass and contemplates herself, first on one side, then on the other, and laughs in the glee of her heart.

Brava, Lisette--brava! Hark! she sings--

'For a country girl I surely may
Look on myself with some small pride;
Alonzo--yes! all the world will say,
Thou hast chosen a nice little bride.'

At that moment she fancies she hears some one knock at her door. In the twinkling of an eye everything is put in due order; the shawl is hung on the peg in its proper place, the bonnet laid conspicuously on the table, and 'Come in' is answered to the summons. 'Come in, Ludvig,' she repeats in a clearer voice; but Lisette must surely have been mistaken, for no one enters at her bidding. She goes towards the door and listens, she peeps through the keyhole, and finally opens the door and looks out, but no mortal is there.

The foregoing scene is resumed: the shawl is taken again from its sanctum, the bonnet is replaced on her rich glossy brown hair; again her dark eyes shine, and again she smiles in the most captivating manner. Happy little Lisette! How unpretending must be her claims to the joys of life! A bonnet is sufficient to minister to her happiness. She parades up and down the room. How proudly she carries her little head; what fascination in her air and figure! She has that grace which is neither acquired nor affected; that untaught grace which nature, in its caprice, sometimes bestows on a milliner's girl, and denies to a lady of the court, or to a princess!

At that moment her glance falls on the forgotten common straw hat with its pink ribbons, and the sight of it instantly dispels all her gaiety. Who now wears such a bonnet? It is quite, quite out of fashion, unfortunate Lisette! You--you alone are born to hide your lovely countenance under such a hideous shade; and not one single male being may behold how charmingly the modern little silk bonnet becomes you. Another is to enjoy the fruit of your labour, to sport the work of your hands, and the production of your taste and skill! Poor girl! It is hard, it is unjust, your sad fate is really to be pitied.

With the slightest look in the world of chagrin she has cast herself into the leather arm-chair to take some rest after her fatigues. The clock has struck half-past seven, and she has been working since four in the morning. She can hardly repress her impatience. 'What can have become of Ludvig!' she exclaims to herself. 'Everything seems to conspire against me to-day; surely he cannot have taken it into his head to visit me in the forenoon, when he knows that _this_ is my leisure time? Why does he not come? For though he plagues me sometimes, and he is often vexed with me, he knows very well how glad I am to see him.'

Lisette becomes thoughtful, and begins to meditate upon the future. Her position is trying enough. What signifies it to her that her embroidery, her flounces, her caps, are always beautiful; that her bonnets look quite as fashionable as those of the court milliners? She barely makes a maintenance, and she has an invalid mother to support. What prospect is there of any change in her circumstances? What good fortune has she to hope for in the future? She throws herself back in the lounging-chair, closes her eyes, and begins--_to dream_.

Ah! who does not know what happy miracles take place in dreams? Real joys are seldom the growth of this world, and are only found by a few, but to compensate for their absence, by the bounty of Providence, a reflection of them is permitted to all mankind; for _fancy_ may, for an instant, bestow that happiness which never can be realized. The pleasures of imagination are open to all; in dreams we may taste of felicity, and surely none are so wretched as never in fancy to have known a moment of consolation and comfort.

Lisette is smiling; she is not asleep, but she has closed her eyes, the better to enjoy her little world of phantasies and dreams. Her situation in life is altered. She is no longer the poor Lisette who must toil from day to day to supply her urgent wants, and whose wardrobe consists only of two or three dresses, a shawl, and a coarse straw hat. Oh, no; it is far different! She need no longer exert herself so much, and is no longer obliged to rise with the swallow, whose nest is near her window. She has bought silk dresses, a pretty bonnet, and a fashionable shawl. She has been to Charlottenlund; has heard the band at Frederiksberg; and wandered in the woods with her young friends. What magic has suddenly wrought this change in her destiny? She dreams it; and who would recall her from the harmless enjoyment of her vivid waking visions? Lisette delights in the theatre; she has been there twice in her life, and has seen the 'Elverhoei' and 'King Solomon;' but she knows all the opera and vaudeville airs by heart, and sings them like an angel. She has just settled that she will take a box for the season, when she hears a knock at the door. 'Come in!' she exclaims, languidly; and this time it is no false alarm, for a waiting-maid walks in with a parcel and a bandbox. Lisette is somewhat annoyed at the interruption; however, she rises and asks what is wanted. The maid brings an old bonnet to be retrimmed for her mistress, and orders a new one for herself, which she desires may be ready by the next Sunday, when she is going out, and will call for it. She dares not let her mistress see it; but her lover, the mate of a ship trading to China, insists on her being nicely dressed. He has presented her with a China-crape shawl, which she begs may be allowed to remain at Lisette's until the important Sunday.

As she is leaving the room the clock strikes eight, and Lisette suddenly remembers that she has not watered the rosebush, which was given her by Ludvig. What shameful carelessness! She hastens to perform the pleasing task: that in doing this her glance falls upon the pavement below, and that at the same moment the handsome hussar officer, Lieutenant W----, is passing by--surely must be the work of chance. He bows--it must be to the family of the Councillor of State in the lower story, not to the inhabitant of the poor garret up at the roof of the house. He casts a look up towards heaven, and sees a heaven in Lisette's beautiful eyes. Perhaps he was watching the clouds, and thinking of the weather; but his eyes sparkled like the beam of the noonday sun, or like two very bright stars. He lifts his hand to his military cap--how elegant are his movements! What a pretty compliment to pass unnoticed! Unnoticed? If so, what means that deep blush on Lisette's cheek? Is it the blush of triumphant beauty, or is it merely a passing tint, cast by the roses over which she is bending?

Lisette busies herself with the plant, and trains its branches with more than usual assiduity. It would seem that she redoubled her care of the rosebush, by way of making up to its donor for her momentary faithlessness. 'I will never see him more,' said Lisette to herself; 'I will never come near the window again at eight o'clock. To-day I have done so for the last time. But why so? I am guilty of nothing--I have never once spoken to him; all I know is, that he always passes this way precisely at eight o'clock; but I have no right to think that it is on my account. Perhaps it is not good for my rosebush to be watered so late; and Ludvig is so jealous--oh, _so_ jealous! I can't imagine why; I am sure he has no cause for jealousy. It is too bad. Ah--these men! these men! They expect from us one sacrifice after another, but not the slightest pleasure will they allow to us.'

During this monologue her eye had fallen on the parcel left by the waiting-maid. Her curiosity became excited to see what is in it, and especially what sort of a shawl the mate had bestowed upon 'that stupid Lena.' She stands for some time debating with herself, her eye riveted on the parcel; at length she determines to open it. What a beauty it is! No countess could have a handsomer shawl. Lisette wraps it round her, and betakes herself again to the glass, where she gazes at it with the utmost admiration, slightly tinctured perhaps with a _little_ dash of envy. Taking it off, and laying it on her table, she places herself a second time in the old leather arm-chair, and sinks back into the world of dreams. But it is no longer the box at the theatre that occupies her imagination; her head is full of the charming shawl. She fancies that she has one as pretty; that her plain dress is exchanged for another of splendid materials; that she is surrounded by admirers, and--little coquette that she is--that she gives them no hope, for she loves only Ludvig: but still, she does not quite discard them.

But where is Ludvig himself all this time? Look round, and you will behold him now!

Do you see that young man with an intelligent countenance, with bright speaking eyes and dark curly hair, who at this moment has entered the room. That is Ludvig. His open collar exhibiting his throat, and the rest of his somewhat fantastic costume, at once evince that he is an artist: but we must add that he is an artist of no ordinary talent, and that as a portrait-painter he is admired and sought after, he has closed the door softly, and stealing forward on tiptoe, he approaches Lisette, who, lost in her magic world of dreams, is not at all aware of his presence. She is leaning gracefully back in the large easy-chair, her eyes closed, their long dark lashes reposing on her fair soft cheeks, and an enchanting smile, caused by the drama of her imagination, playing around her rosy lips. He bends over her as if he would fain, from the expression of her countenance, read her unspoken thoughts. What a study for a painter! What an exquisite pleasure for an ardent lover! Ludvig can no longer merely _look_--he snatches up her hands, and covers them with kisses. Lisette opens her eyes. At that very moment she had been dreaming of him; she had refused all her other suitors for his sake; she had forgotten the caprice, the jealousy, the absurdities of which she had often accused him, and only remembered how happy she was to be beloved by him. Ludvig could not have arrived more opportunely. She reproaches him playfully for being so late, scolds him for keeping her waiting so long, but soon allows herself to be appeased. She tells him how industrious she has been, shows him the newly-finished bonnet, and does not omit to try it on before him--for she must have _his_ opinion to confirm her own. Perhaps all this may be called coquetry; well, allowing it to be coquetry, there is no guile or deceit in it. Poor Ludvig is over head and ears in love; therefore he is charmed with Lisette, with the bonnet, with everything. His warm feelings find expression in compliments such as Lisette is not accustomed to hear from him, and she naturally thinks him more than usually agreeable. They chat about their first acquaintance, the simple incidents of their love history, and '_Do you remember when?_'--'_Do you recollect that time?_'--these phrases, so often introduced into the colloquies of lovers, pass and repass from their lips; they dwell, not only on their past reminiscences, but on their future hopes, and above all, on their mutual affection, that theme which never seems to become wearisome, and the variations to which appear to be endless. Lisette then relates her day-dreams and her castles in the air--at least a part of them, as much as she thinks Ludvig can bear to hear, but even that part seems to displease him, for an ominous shake of his head, as he listens to her, does not escape her observation.

'Good Heavens!' she exclaimed, 'how have I sinned now? What does that grave look portend? It is really very tiresome. Two minutes ago you were so lively and so good-humoured. Is there any harm in my building castles in the air to amuse my leisure moments, and laying plans in fancy which I know can never come to pass?'

'And how can _you_ be so hasty, and seem so vexed about nothing? I am not at all displeased, my dear girl. I do not deny that these dreams of yours are quite innocent; but I do say this, that if your head be filled with all these romantic schemes and ideas, and you encourage yourself in cherishing them, by-and-by you will be so led away by the vagaries of your own imagination, that you will be discontented with the humble lot which, alas! I have but the means of offering you.'

'Oh! you have no need to entertain such a fear. Am I not happy in the thought that the time may come when we shall share each other's destiny? or have I ever regretted that my fate is to be united to yours? What care I for wealth, or for all those fictions which it pleases the world to call good fortune? It is your affection alone which can make me rich; without that, I should value nothing.'

Who could withstand such words from the beautiful mouth of a charming young girl? Ludvig has already in his own mind owned he was wrong, and now he hastens to beg a thousand pardons. He presses her to his heart, and is about to assure her of his entire confidence in her, when he suddenly perceives the costly shawl that is lying, half folded, on the table, and the words die away upon his lips. Suspicion has darted across his mind. 'Where could that expensive shawl have come from?' he asks himself. 'She could not afford to buy it. Does she receive presents from anyone but me? Can she be faithless--false?' His easily-aroused jealousy speedily got the better of him, and her guilt was no longer to be doubted.

Lisette had not in the slightest degree observed this sudden change; she permitted her head to rest affectionately on his shoulder--but he quickly disengaged himself, and pushed her coldly from him.

'What is the matter, Ludvig?' she asked, in much surprise. 'Are you out of humour again? What is wrong now?'

'Oh! nothing, nothing! at least, nothing of consequence enough for you to care about.'

'What can you mean? Am I not privileged to share your sorrows and annoyances, whether they are great or small? You know you are sure of my sympathy; why, then, should you conceal anything from me? But you have no longer any confidence in me; you love me no longer as you used to do, or you would not treat me thus.'

'These reproaches come well from your lips, indeed, Miss Lisette. Certainly you have much to complain of.'

Lisette became angry, for she knew that she was innocent of all evil. Had she not, a few minutes before, vowed not to go so often to the window, when the handsome hussar officer passed? And had she not recently, in fancy, discarded all her suitors, determining to admit and to listen only to Ludvig? And now to be treated so by him! Was her fidelity to be thus rewarded? 'Fie, Ludvig!' she exclaimed, with some vehemence. 'You are too tyrannical; you have often been hasty, irritable, nay, unkind to me; but I have borne it all patiently, for I knew your unreasonable jealousy; but you are too sharp with me--too cruelly sharp--I have not deserved this from you, and I will not put up with it.'

'Well said! You speak out, at any rate. You won't "_put up with it_," Lisette? Of course you have no need to put up with _me_ any longer. There are plenty, I know, who will flatter you, and make a fool of you: but you will not find one who loves you as sincerely as I do.'

'And why not, pray? Perhaps I may though.'

'What do you say, Lisette? Ah! now I see I have been mistaken in you. Farewell! You shall never behold me more. I will not stand in the way of your good fortune. My presence shall never again irritate you for a moment. Farewell!'

He rushed from the room, and Lisette had already the handle of the door in her hand, intending to run after him and call him back; but she stopped a moment to reflect. 'No!' she exclaimed to herself, 'I will not afford him such a triumph. Let him go. Is he not clearly in the wrong; and must I invariably give in? No; this time he shall wait awhile.'

Lisette is very angry; she paces up and down her room, without so much as casting one look down towards the street to see where he is going. 'It is quite unbearable,' she cries. 'He teazes me out of my life with his ridiculous jealousy. It is a proof of his love, he says.... Ah, dear! I am sure I would much rather dispense with such love tokens.' Lisette throws herself into the easy-chair, and commences humming an opera air. Then she begins to rack her brains to discover what on earth could have caused Ludvig's sudden transition from good-humour to anger and jealousy; but she vainly tries to find a reason for his strange conduct. 'I will think no more about him! He does not deserve the affection I waste upon him, nor that I should take his folly so much to heart. Is this love? Not the slightest indulgence will he permit to me; he cannot endure that I should be happy even in dreams! It is my only, only comfort, and he shall _not_ deprive me of it.' So saying, she lets herself fall back in her lounging-chair: at that moment she feels a kind of perverse satisfaction in doing what Ludvig disapproved of.

The force of habit is strong, and she soon fails into her day-dreams again. She fancies she has dismissed all her admirers, and now stands alone in the world. She invests herself with astonishing talents; no longer wastes her energies in making bonnets and taking in sewing. She has had first-rate masters for every accomplishment under heaven, and every possible branch of education, from moral philosophy down to--hair-dressing. She dances like Vestris--sings like Catalani--and plays like Moschelles. With youth, beauty, and shining talents, she is received into the highest society, and the mystery which hangs over her early days but adds a piquancy to the charm of her numerous fascinations: for the great world, so monotonous in itself, loves the excitement of curiosity. She soon becomes the cynosure of fashion, adored by all the gentlemen--envied by all the ladies. Still she is not satisfied with mere drawing-room admiration. She will go upon the stage. She comes out in an opera of Scribe, composed by Auber, and arranged by Heiberg. The theatre rings with applause; bouquets are showered at her feet; the bright stars of Copenhagen--Madame H----, and Mademoiselle W----, have, at length, found a rival, and to this rival a large salary is offered by the manager of the theatre. She has scarcely finished reading his highly complimentary letter, when another is brought to her. In haste she opens it, and, casting her eyes on the signature, she sees, 'Sigismund Frederick, Count of R.' She starts with surprise; the young, the rich, the distinguished count, assuring her that he cannot live without her, offers her his heart, his fortune, and his hand! But, just then, amidst the glow of her gratified vanity and ambition, a small voice whispers the name of--_Ludvig_. He has been rough and rude to her; he left her in anger; he deserves no remembrance from her; yet--her heart yearns towards him--she feels that she can forgive and forget; that she can repay good for evil, and can sacrifice everything for him she loves.

Poor Lisette passes into a state of great excitement between the phantasms of her imagination and the real feelings of her soul; she actually rises to answer the visionary letter, and she writes as follows:--

'NOBLE COUNT,--I should be very ungrateful if I did not highly value the honour which you have conferred upon me, in condescending to make me the offer which I had not the slightest claim to expect. I will not repay your goodness by any want of candour, and am, therefore, obliged to confess to you that _that_ heart for which you ask is no longer free; and that love with which you would honour me I am unable to return as it deserves. From my earliest youth I have been attached to a poor artist; he was my first love, and will be my last. I will venture to indulge the hope that you will receive this open admission as a proof of my sincere regard and high esteem for you, which forbid me to accept the happy fortune that destiny, doubtless, reserves for one more worthy of it than myself.'

Lisette was mightily pleased with this billet, which she considered a _chef-d'[oe]uvre_ of the romantico-literary style. She had conned it over several times, and was about to fold and seal it, when the striking of a neighbouring clock awoke her to the realities of life, reminded her that she had some work to finish, and at once demolished all her _castles in the air_.

The horn inkstand is put away, the letter is left lying forgotten amidst the shreds of silk; and the scissors and the needles are once more in full activity. In the meantime Ludvig has returned, and stands by Lisette's side, in a repentant mood. He has come back to try to obtain some explanation about the unfortunate shawl, and to throw himself at her feet, and beg her forgiveness that he had again offended her by his suspicions. But Lisette is angry, and she will scarcely take the least notice of him. She does not, however, hold out long, her naturally kind heart soon becomes softened, she sets his mind at ease by enlightening him on the affair of the shawl; but, very properly, takes him well to task. Ludvig is in the seventh heaven. He blames himself severely, calls Lisette by all the tender names that language can suggest; he swears never more to torment her by his suspicions and jealousy, and seizes her hands to kiss them, in ratification of his vow, but, at that moment, he espies some stains of ink on her delicate fingers. 'You have been writing! To whom were you writing?' he abruptly asks, in a hoarse voice, while his countenance gradually darkens. Lisette colours, and looks perplexed. She is unwilling to confess that she has again been building castles in the air, knowing, as she does, that he has an objection to them; she stammers, and is at a loss for an answer.

Her embarrassment adds fuel to the flames; the demon of jealousy is again at work in Ludvig's mind, he utters not a syllable, but darting at her a glance that, if looks could kill, would have annihilated her on the spot, he seizes his hat and is about to leave her. Lisette is in the greatest consternation. She tries to detain him. 'Ludvig--dear Ludvig!--I have--can you forgive ...?'

'What have you done? What am I called on to forgive? you false, deceitful one!' he cries, passionately interrupting her, while he endeavours to break away from her.

'Oh, do not be so violent, Ludvig! I have been amusing myself with my dreams again. I have again been building castles in the air. Forgive me this once more! _There_ is what I have been writing.'