Part 4

"Ah, I could love her!" said _Heinrich_. "You should not extend your arms to me vain, beautiful soul; I would foster and cherish you as my most sacred possession; but it is impossible. Even if I should give her this man, what would she possess? A cold intellect and a sensuality which this poor ethereal nature would be unable to attract, and by which she would sooner or later be betrayed." Absorbed in these thoughts, he walked through the rooms to take his leave. He wished to go home, for he had lost all inclination for the entertainment. When he reached the last apartment a new dance had just commenced and drawn every one into the large salons. The room was silent and empty, only the lights in the candelabra burned with a low crackle; fans and withered bouquets lay scattered over the tables, and cloaks that had been carelessly cast aside were thrown upon the sofas. Everything bore witness to the bright and joyous life that had reigned here a few minutes before, and now the deserted chamber with its marble columns and gilded arches seemed like a mausoleum, where the soul might take a last farewell. He paused an instant. "Ottilie!" he murmured, half unconsciously, and the solemn mood he had felt a short time before again overmastered him. It seemed as if beneficent spirits were floating in the waves of light that surrounded him and trying to whisper something, but he could no longer understand them. Just then he suddenly heard a low rustle: some living creature was near. He looked around him and saw the princess standing in the doorway gazing at him with deep earnestness.

"Ottilie," cried _Heinrich_, "God has sent you here! The angel of my life called me, but I could no longer understand his words; for in the tumult of the world I have grown deaf to his spirit voice. He dwells in you; become his oracle, let him speak to me through your lips."

"Herr von Ottmar, my heart is filled with the thought of your welfare, but bow to help you I know not. I will pray your good angel to show me some means of fathoming the trouble in your soul. I know of no way unless"--she hesitated, less from embarrassment than to seek the right word,--"unless you can find a nature which will understand and have for you the patience of true love. Only the anxiety of a heart entirely devoted to you will discover the means of restoring your lost peace. That you may win such a being is the hope and desire of my soul."

"Princess," cried _Heinrich_, whom Ottilie's lovely enthusiasm had deeply charmed, "if I now say that I find such a being in you, that there is no woman to whom I will intrust my life except you--"

"No, my friend," said Ottilie calmly, though she turned pale. "You are deceived in yourself at this moment. You do not love it is the longing for the right which, thank God, always lives in you, which attracts you to my--I may be allowed to say it--pure soul. This is not love; I know it, and would never strengthen you in an error which would defraud you of the best portion of your life. Yet I thank you for your confession. It makes you appear still more lovable in my eyes; not because you have made it to me, but to the ideal to which I would so gladly see you rise."

"Ottilie, let me thank you on my knees for the light you have poured into my darkened soul, and let me swear I will do everything good and great of which I may be capable in your name, your spirit!" _Heinrich_ impulsively threw himself at her feet and clasped her hands. "Oh, my soul loves you, Ottilie, with a love which--"

"Which is not of this world," interrupted Ottilie, bending over him. "Another love will enter your heart, and you will bless me for having had strength to refuse what does not belong to me! And now I entreat you to rise and leave me to myself."

_Heinrich_ rose and started back as he looked at Ottilie. She was standing proudly erect, struggling for breath, as her tears flowed more and more violently; her eyes were closed, her delicate lips firmly compressed, she was a most touching picture of agonizing self-sacrifice.

"Poor heart! you love me, and yet are noble enough to reject me?" asked _Heinrich_.

"Yes, my friend," murmured Ottilie, "so truly as God will sustain me in my last hour, so truly I desire your happiness more than my own, so truly I resign you. You must be free, and choose freely. God grant you may find the right!"

"After this vow I have nothing more to hope," said _Heinrich_. "Farewell, my friend! One who has power to exercise such self-restraint has also strength to conquer her sorrow." He kissed her cold, pale brow, and hastily left the room.

"Thank God it has turned out so!" whispered _Henri_; and _Heinrich_ also uttered a sigh of relief: he felt that he had escaped a great danger. He had been hurried on by a momentary impulse and Ottilie's unconcealed love to a step which he would have bitterly repented; for he was equally convinced that no one would ever understand him like Ottilie, and also that her appreciation alone would not satisfy him. As _Henri_ desired more sensual, _Heinrich_ demanded greater intellectual, charms. He wished to be excited, kept in a state of suspense, enlivened, amused: Ottilie's uniform, quiet earnestness would not have afforded him this, and he thanked her for having rightly understood his hasty enthusiasm and been generous enough to reject him.

Meantime, the queenly Ottilie stood motionless in the glittering apartment, her hand pressed to her heart and her eyes raised towards heaven. "Which of us is most to be pitied, he or I?"

V.

MASTER AND PUPIL.

On his way home, Ottmar remembered that he had appointed this very hour for a tender meeting, and gradually the solemn impression made by the last few moments faded before the charming picture which now obtained the mastery over his soul. When he returned home his old valet, who had served him from childhood, met him with a pale, sleepy face, and slowly lighted the candles.

"Has not the little girl come yet?" asked _Henri_.

"Who?"

"Who should it be? Roeschen," he added.

"Roeschen, Marten the beadle's daughter, do you expect her?"

"Of course I do; I persuaded her to meet me in the garden. Keep watch at the window, and when she comes take her into the pavilion," he said, absently, throwing himself into a chair.

"Permit me to warn you, Herr Baron," said the old man with sorrowful earnestness. "Roeschen is an innocent maiden, the only daughter of an honest, poor man, whose sole joy is in this child. Have you considered this?"

"Don't bore me with your reproaches, man!" cried _Henri_. "Don't grudge me this little pleasure; life with these frivolous, coquettish women is already gradually becoming so shallow that it is no longer endurable. I must have something pure and simple, which can refresh my mind and interrupt the everlasting sameness; and she is really a charming creature!" he murmured, admiringly.

"Herr Baron," said the old man, with deep emotion, "I promised your dying mother to watch over you as far and as long as it was in my power. In former days my influence often prevailed; but since your severe illness and residence in France you have become a different person; still, I did all that was possible in my limited sphere to keep you from evil of every kind. Of late I have feared more for the safety of your soul than your bodily welfare. I have had occasion to perform services of which I have been ashamed. To carry letters and attend light-minded ladies home is not the business of a respectable man; yet I did it out of affection for you, and because no innocent person suffered. You gave me no thanks for my obedience, but took it as a proof that I shared your views, and probably secretly despised me for it. I bore all patiently and did my duty. But today, Herr Baron, it is time to hold you back from the path on which you have entered. To ruin an innocent girl is a crime of which I would not have believed you capable, and to which I will lend no aid."

"Old fool!" muttered _Henri_, looking at the clock, "if you were not so useful I would have dismissed you to some quiet place long ago. Don't pretend to be more silly than you are, Anton. I've already heard so much morality to-day that I was on the point of doing a very foolish thing. Do you suppose I shall begin again with my valet? Go, and let me alone!"

"Herr Baron," replied Anton, firmly, "I am sorry to be obliged to tell you that I must leave your service if you insist upon seeing the girl, and beg you to discharge me to-night."

"Anton," cried _Henri_, in a furious passion, "I have borne with you for a long time! You were faithful to me, even resisted the temptations of the Jesuits, and always attended to my welfare. All this I have recognized and rewarded; but I can no longer keep a servant who wishes to set himself up as a judge of my conduct, were he ever so indispensable to me; so remember your place better, or go!"

At that moment the door-bell rang gently. "Ah, she is coming!" exclaimed _Henri_, exultantly; and forgetting everything else, he turned to Anton, calling, "Lights!"

The old servant did not move, but stood with clasped hands praying, under his breath, "Dear God, save this young soul!"

_Henri_ rushed down the staircase on which the moonlight lay in broad bars; his hands trembled with joyful impatience. "Wait, my Roeschen! my little pink rose! I will admit you, my darling!" he whispered, as he turned the key and threw open the heavy door, half bending forward to embrace his angel; but a tall figure, on which the moon cast a ghostly light, entered and fixed a pair of dark, searching eyes upon the astonished _Henri_.

"Oh, Christ! what is this?" he exclaimed, staggering back as if overwhelmed with terror and disappointed expectation against the door, which he closed again.

"It is not Christ, but one who comes in his name," replied the stranger's deep voice in the purest Italian.

"By all good angels, Father Severinus!" murmured _Henri_, recoiling a step. A low knock sounded from without; the young man's blood mounted to his brow, and he hesitated a moment in the greatest embarrassment.

"Here are my companions," said the Italian. "Allow me to open the door." He threw it back, and two figures, clad in the same dress as his own, entered, accompanied by one of the Jesuits who had spoken to _Henri_ that night at the ball. They greeted him respectfully, and he was man of the world enough to instantly accommodate himself to his painful situation as well as the torturing disappointment of the moment.

"You are welcome, reverend sirs," he said, smiling, and led the way up-stairs.

Old Anton stood upon the landing with a light, and one of the priests saluted him with his "Praised be Jesus Christ."

"Forever, amen!" replied the old man, with a deep sigh, as he placed chairs for the strangers and left the room, casting a sorrowful glance at his master.

"We have been looking for you at the ball, my son," Father Severinus began; "because I only arrived from Rome this evening, and must set out again early tomorrow morning. I am taking a journey through Germany, and thought it my duty to see you, my favorite pupil, and look after the welfare of your soul. But, unfortunately, I was compelled to learn that the soil which so readily received our lessons was a mere sand-heap, whose best harvest is blown away by the wind."

_Heinrich_, who had taken _Henri's_ place, quietly listened to the priest's words with his usual satirical smile. "Reverend sir, I must first observe that I am no longer in the mood to allow myself to be treated like a schoolboy. There are times when a peculiar fatality seems to pursue us; to-day appears to have been set apart for giving me moral lectures, and I assure you the more of them I hear the less successful they are; so you perceive you will not be able to accomplish much in this way, especially with a man who has returned at one o'clock in the morning, weary and heated, from a ball."

"Perhaps Princess Ottilie also belongs to the number of those whose 'moral lectures' have been so unsuccessful," sneeringly remarked Ottmar's ball-room companion, Geheimrath Schwelling.

"What do you know about that?" exclaimed _Heinrich_.

"Enough, I should think; the noble lady did not speak so low that any one in the adjoining window corner could not hear everything, and it is really a duty to inform her how useless her admonitions are, that she may not trouble herself vainly in future."

_Heinrich_ cast a glance of inexpressible contempt at the sleek, fat face and restless eyes of the speaker. "Princess Ottilie is the noblest woman I know," he exclaimed, with deep emotion, "and is too lofty to lend her ear to such vulgar insinuations. If, however, you succeed in betraying me to her, remember that you will do me no harm, but only inflict useless pain upon a noble heart."

"Or heal it," replied the Geheimrath, contemptuously.

"Cease this aimless conversation, gentlemen," said Severinus. "I am astonished, Herr Geheimrath, to hear what language you employ towards a man whose great talents, even as an enemy, should command your respect. Surely these are not the means worthy of so great an end; and if our affairs in Germany are managed thus, I can understand why the word 'Jesuit' is here used as a bugbear to frighten children. _In majorem Dei gloriam_, never forget that. Unfortunately, I see you men of the world must be reminded of it more frequently than our dead General has done. It was time a more powerful hand should seize the reins; I perceive that more and more at every step I take upon this soil."

He had risen from his seat as he uttered these words, and there was something so menacing and imperious in his bearing that the Geheimrath exclaimed, with mingled fear and anger, "By what authority do you use this language towards me, Father Severinus?"

"By the authority the General, who sends me, gave me over every worldly coadjutor who enjoys the advantages of our alliance without showing himself worthy of them."

The word General and Severinus's majestic bearing utterly crushed the Geheimrath, who sank into a chair in silence, passing his hand over a brow bedewed with cold perspiration.

"Take me to a room where I can speak to you in private, my son," said the priest in a very different tone, turning to Ottmar. "We alone have understood each other, and we shall come to an understanding again."

"As you please," said _Heinrich_, hesitatingly, and was about to take one of the candlesticks from the table.

"Nay," observed Severinus, checking him. "You know my habits; do not refuse me the favor of being allowed to speak to you in darkness as in former days. The soul can collect its powers better when external objects are concealed."

"As you please," Ottmar repeated, while a faint smile played around his lips.

He led the priest into the adjoining library; then left the room a moment and said to Anton, in low tone, "Examine my study, remove the papers lying around, and bolt the door leading into the dining-room. If Roeschen comes, I also rely upon your faithfulness to take her into the garden and shut her up in the pavilion."

Then he quietly returned to his guest. The library was dimly lighted by the moonbeams. The books towered aloft in immense cases, and from the most exhaustive works of the _intellect_, bound in these lifeless cases to arise again in spirit, the eye wandered to the most perfect works of _nature_ imperishably imprisoned in stone and colors to refresh the weary thinker, and gently win him back from his dizzy heights to this world and its lovely forms. Statues and pictures of every kind stood and hung around.

If a moonbeam shone upon the gilt letters of the names of the greatest poets and learned men, it also revealed the mute embrace of Cupid and Psyche, and brought out in strong relief the marble shoulder of the Venus de Medici. In a niche filled with palms and climbing plants, it cast flickering shadows upon Schwanthaler's nymph, which seemed to be lamenting that she was stone, and glittered upon a marble basin at her feet. Then its pale gleam struggled with the vivid hues of the exquisite copy of a Titian, or glided over a table filled with charts, sketches, and plans, whose half-rolled sheets fluttered gently. The room revealed a strange, mysterious life and nature. Ghosts seemed to be gliding to and fro,--the tall, chastely-veiled ghosts of philosophy and poetry,--the nude, caressing genii of love and pleasure. Now all appeared to have gathered curiously around the dark, tall form of the priest, who stood leaning thoughtfully against the pedestal of a Hebe.

"This study, or library, is characteristic of you, my son," began Severinus, when Ottmar returned. "I see everywhere the results of the two dominant powers of your nature,--intellect and sensuality,--but no piety; a worship of the mind, a worship of nature: but where, where are the traces of religion? Have you, then, utterly cast aside what you adopted when with us?"

"Father Severinus," said _Heinrich_, advancing until he stood face to face with him, "we are alone. Be frank; do you ask, _you_, that I shall become a devotee?"

Severinus gazed at him bong and earnestly. "That you should become a devotee? No! What I ask of you is consistency! When with us you apparently became deeply imbued with religious feeling, and openly displayed it an all occasions. Now you deny it; therefore you have either _lost_--in which case you are to be pitied, or never _possessed_ it, when you deserve great blame for the deception you have practiced in relation to the most sacred things and towards us."

_Heinrich_ was silent. He felt the justice of the priest's reproof, and found no reply; at the same time he was stupefied by the dim, flickering light and the excitement of the last hour, and could not suppress a slight yawn. Father Severinus was also silent, and waited patiently for a reply. At last _Heinrich_ said, impatiently: "Most reverend father, you might spare a great deal of your pathos. I do not deny the truth of your reproach; the only doubt is whether it specially concerns me, for I must confess to you that it is a matter of comparative indifference whether you have cause to be indignant or not. I have released myself from your authority, and belong to another party, so I have nothing more to expect or endure from you. True, you have succeeded in making me suspected at this court; but I shall find means to justify myself, and then we will see which of us has most occasion to fear the other."

"I am deeply grieved to hear this language, which, by my faith in Christ, I have not deserved," replied Severinus. "I am guiltless of the measures the hasty, newly-appointed agent for Germany induced the Father General to employ against you. Will you believe me?"

_Heinrich_ bowed. "I am well aware that you are too proud to adopt such a course."

"Well then, for what wrong can you upbraid me, which justifies this inconsiderate, heartless language?" He paused and looked at _Heinrich_, who bit his lips and drummed on the arm of his chair. "What wrong has the order done you that you take upon yourself the task of entering upon a contest with it?" repeated Severinus. Another pause ensued. "What could induce you to commit such a breach of faith?"

"I have committed no breach of faith!" exclaimed _Heinrich_, "for I never belonged to you; I am and was a free-thinker. For a long time I admitted your great and manifest excellences, but the longer I remained among you the more I learned to hate you and the principles of your order, whose sole aim is the subjection of the mind to your dogmas, or rather your authority, an object to attain which you know how to employ every conceivable means, good as well as bad. Do you really ask a man of my nature to submit to become the tool of such plans? If you could expect it, it was your fault, not mine, if you now find yourselves deceived."

"To that, my son, I have two answers," replied Severinus, after a short pause of reflection. "If the principles of our order, which the hand of God has hitherto wonderfully protected, seem to you so worthy of blame that you consider it a duty to oppose them and prepare a better fate for your nation by your own ideas, I can say nothing against it in my own person, except that I pity your error, while I can pay a certain respect to the man who has at heart the welfare of his people, even though his views may be mistaken. But you, _Heinrich_, do not oppose us from the necessity of preserving your country from a supposed evil, nor from the sanctity of a firm though erroneous conviction, but merely out of vanity, that thereby you may play a prominent part before your revolutionary party. You know nothing more sublime and imperishable than the worldly admiration bestowed upon you, because the reward and recognition of Christ, promised by his vicars throughout eternity, are incredulously scorned by your narrow soul. Vanity and egotism are answerable for your actions towards us, and even destroy the paltry merit of having sacrificed yourself for your convictions."

"Oh, Ottilie," _Heinrich_ suddenly exclaimed, in bitter wrath, "gentle, innocent angel! How much better you understood me!"

"That is not all I have to say in reply," continued Severinus, without permitting himself to be at all disturbed by the interruption. "If, as I have just seen, the reproach of acting from selfish impulses wounds you so deeply, tell me what noble motive induced you to remain a year with men whom you abhor, receive every possible proof of friendship from them, and feign enthusiastic interest in a faith which seems to you pernicious and criminal? Pray answer this, if you can."

"I can," replied _Heinrich_, quietly. "Chance and ennui threw me into your hands. You took me to the college. The genius of your system attracted me; I wished to penetrate the mysterious nimbus which surrounded you, to investigate you and your nature, as people desire to examine every curiosity. You interested me, and I very soon perceived that it would only cost me a little hypocrisy to acquire knowledge which would be useful all my life. I looked upon it as a necessary entrance-fee, and paid you with it. Why did you not see that the coin was false? You trained me for diplomacy, and drilled me in the arts of dissimulation, to which you gave the noble name of 'self-command.' As I learned them I tested them on you, and thus you see that my diplomatic career began by making you the first victims of your own teachings, and by deceiving you. Truth will pardon my year of faithlessness for the sake of a lifetime of repentance."

"That sounds very strange," said Severinus. "Did we teach you hypocrisy? To _conceal_ the truth without _telling a lie_ is the art we communicated to aid you in your diplomatic career. But granted that it was so, granted that we taught you dissimulation to obtain certain necessary ends, should not common human gratitude have withheld you from betraying in such a despicable manner the men who trusted you?"

"Gratitude," laughed _Heinrich_, "for what? Did you receive me cordially and bestow your instruction upon me for my own sake? Certainly not. Why did you expel poor Albert Preheim, who was miserably poor, dependent, and sincerely devoted to you? Because he had not sufficient ability to serve you, because he was a man of limited intellect. You did not keep me for my good but your own, because you expected to find in me a useful tool, because a skillful agent for this country was necessary. Tell me yourself, would you have done all this for me if the matter had only concerned my welfare?"