Part 7

Photo-Etching.--From drawing by Démarest.]

Who can describe the emotions of a true heart which feels that it is appreciated by another noble heart? And if the love uniting these two similar souls be an indissoluble bond, who can paint their indescribable raptures? It seems as if they must feel, crowded into one brief instant, all the joy and all the glory of life, embellished by the charm of generous sacrifice.

“Oh, my Ordener, go; and if you never return, grief will kill me. I shall have that tardy consolation.”

Both rose, and Ordener placed Ethel’s arm within his own, and took that adored hand in his. They silently traversed the winding alleys of the gloomy garden, and reluctantly reached the gate which led into the world. There, Ethel, drawing a pair of tiny gold scissors from her bosom, cut off a curl of her beautiful black hair.

“Take it, Ordener; let it go with you; let it be happier than I am.”

Ordener devotedly pressed to his lips this gift from his beloved.

She added: “Ordener, think of me; I will pray for you. My prayers may be as potent with God as your arms with the demon.”

Ordener bowed before this angel. His soul was too full for words. They remained clasped in each other’s arms for some time. As they were about to part, perhaps forever, Ordener, with a sad thrill, enjoyed the happiness of holding Ethel to his heart once more. At last, placing a long, pure kiss upon the sweet girl’s clouded brow, he rushed violently down the winding stairs, which a moment later echoed with the sweet and painful word, “Farewell!”

X.

You would never think her unhappy. Everything about her speaks of happiness. She wears necklaces of gold, and purple robes. When she goes out, a throng of vassals lie prostrate in her path, and obedient pages spread carpets before her feet. But none see her in the solitude that she loves; for then she weeps, and her husband does not see her tears.--I am that miserable being, the spouse of an honorable man, of a noble count, the mother of a child whose smiles stab me to the heart.--MATURIN: _Bertram_.

The Countess d’Ahlefeld rose after a sleepless night to face a restless day. Half-reclining on a sofa, she pondered the bitter after-taste of corrupt pleasures, and the crime which wastes life in ecstasy without enjoyment and grief without alleviation. She thought of Musdœmon, whom guilty illusions had once painted in such seductive colors, so frightful now that she had penetrated his mask and seen his soul through his body. The wretched woman wept, not because she had been deceived, but because her eyes were no longer blinded,--tears of regret, but not of repentance; therefore her tears afforded her no relief. At this moment her door was opened. She dried her eyes quickly, and turned away, annoyed at being surprised, for she had given orders that she was not to be disturbed. On seeing Musdœmon her vexation changed to fright, which was dispelled when she found that her son Frederic was with him.

“Mother,” cried the lieutenant, “how does it happen that you are here? I thought you were at Bergen. Have our fine ladies taken to running about the country?”

The countess received Frederic with kisses, to which, like all spoiled children, he responded very coldly. This was possibly the worst of punishments to the unhappy woman. Frederic was her beloved son, the only creature in the world for whom she felt an unselfish affection; for a degraded woman often, even when all sense of wifely duty has vanished, retains some trace of the mother.

“I see, my son, that when you heard I was in Throndhjem you hastened to me at once.”

“Oh, no; not I. I was bored to death at the fort; so I came to town, where I met Musdœmon, who brought me here.”

The poor mother sighed heavily.

“By the way, mother,” continued Frederic, “I am very glad to see you, for you can tell me whether knots of pink ribbon on the hem of the doublet are still worn in Copenhagen. Did you think to bring me a flask of that Oil of Youth to whiten the skin? You did not forget, I hope, the last French novel, or the pure gold lace which I asked you to get for my scarlet cloak, or those little combs which are so much used just now to hold the curls in place, or--”

The poor woman had brought nothing to her son, the only love she had on earth.

“My dear boy, I have been ill, and my sufferings prevented my thinking of your pleasures.”

“Have you been ill, mother? Well, are you better now? By the bye, how is my pack of Norman hounds? I’ll wager that they have neglected to bathe my monkey in rose-water every night. You’ll see that I shall find my parrot Bilboa dead on my return. When I am away no one thinks of my pets.”

“At least your mother thinks of you, my son,” said his mother in a faltering voice.

Had this been the inexorable hour when the destroying angel hurls sinful souls into everlasting torments, he would have felt pity for the torture which at this instant wrung the heart of the unfortunate countess. Musdœmon laughed in his sleeve.

“Sir Frederic,” said he, “I see that the steel sword has no desire to rust in its iron scabbard. You do not care to lose the wholesome traditions of Copenhagen drawingrooms within the walls of Munkholm. But yet, allow me to ask you, what is the use of all this Oil of Youth, these pink ribbons, and little combs? What is the use of all these preparations for a siege, if the only feminine fortress within the walls of Munkholm is impregnable?”

“Upon my honor, she is,” laughingly responded Frederic. “Certainly, if I have failed, General Schack himself would fail. But how can you surprise a fortress where nothing is exposed,--where every post is unremittingly guarded? How can you contend against chemisettes which cover all but the neck, against sleeves that hide the whole arm, so that only the face and hands remain to prove that the young woman is not as black as the Emperor of Mauritania? My dear tutor, you yourself would have to go to school again. Believe me, that fort is not to be taken where Modesty is garrisoned.”

“Indeed!” said Musdœmon. “But may not Modesty be forced to surrender, if Love lay siege to it, instead of confining himself to a blockade of delicate attentions?”

“Labor in vain, my dear friend. Love is already in possession of the place, but he serves to reinforce Modesty.”

“Ah, Sir Frederic, this is news indeed,--with Love on your side--”

“And who tells you, Musdœmon, that he is on my side?”

“On whose, then?” exclaimed Musdœmon and the countess, who had listened in silence until now, but who was reminded of Ordener by the lieutenant’s last words.

Frederic was about to answer, and was already preparing a spicy account of the scene of the previous night, when he remembered the silence prescribed by the etiquette of duelling, which changed his gayety to confusion.

“I’ faith,” said he, “I don’t know,--that of some clown perhaps, some retainer.”

“Some soldier of the garrison?” said Musdœmon, laughing heartily.

“What, my son!” exclaimed the countess in her turn. “Are you sure that she loves a rustic, a serf? What luck, if you are sure of it!”

“Oh, of course I am sure. But it’s not one of the soldiers of the garrison,” added the lieutenant, with an offended air. “I am sure enough of what I say, however, to beg you, mother, to cut short my very unnecessary exile at that confounded castle.”

The countess’s face brightened on hearing of the young girl’s fall. Ordener Guldenlew’s eagerness to visit Munkholm now appeared to her in very different colors. She gave her son the benefit of them.

“You must give us an account, Frederic, of Ethel Schumacker’s loves. I am not surprised; the daughter of a boor can only love a boor. Meantime, do not curse that castle which yesterday afforded you the honor of the first advances towards an acquaintance, from a certain distinguished personage.”

“What, mother!” said the lieutenant, staring at her,--“what distinguished personage?”

“A truce to jests, my son. Did no one visit you yesterday? You see that I know all about it.”

“I’ faith, more than I do, Mother. Deuce take me if I saw a face yesterday, except those of the masks carved beneath the cornices of those old towers.”

“What, Frederic! You saw nobody?”

“No one, mother!”

In omitting to mention his antagonist of the donjon, Frederic obeyed the law which bound him to silence; besides, could that clodhopper be counted as any one?

“What!” said his mother. “Did not the viceroy’s son visit Munkholm last night?”

The lieutenant laughed.

“The viceroy’s son! Indeed, mother, you must be dreaming, or else you are joking.”

“Neither, my son. Who was on guard yesterday?”

“I myself, mother.”

“And you did not see Baron Ordener?”

“Not a bit of it,” repeated the lieutenant.

“But consider, my boy, he may have entered in disguise. You never saw him, having been brought up at Copenhagen, while he was educated at Throndhjem. Remember all the stories about his caprices and whims, and his eccentric ideas. Are you sure, my son, that you did not see any one?”

Frederic hesitated an instant.

“No,” he cried, “no one. I can say no more.”

“Then,” replied the countess, “I suppose the baron did not go to Munkholm.”

Musdœmon, at first surprised like Frederic, had listened attentively. He interrupted the countess.

“Allow me, noble lady. Master Frederic, pray tell me the name of the dependent loved by Schumacker’s daughter.”

He repeated his question; for Frederic, who for some moments had been lost in thought, did not hear him.

“I do not know; or rather--no, I do not know.”

“And how, sir, do you know that she loves a dependent?”

“Did I say so? A dependent?--well, yes; he is a dependent.”

The awkwardness of the lieutenant’s position increased momentarily. This series of questions, the ideas to which they gave rise, his enforced silence, threw him into a confusion which he feared he could not much longer control.

“Upon my word, Mr. Musdœmon, and you, my lady mother, if a mania for asking questions be the latest fashion, you may amuse yourselves by questioning each other. For my part, I’ll have nothing more to say to you.”

And flinging open the door, he disappeared, leaving them plunged in an abyss of doubt. He hastened down into the courtyard, for he heard Musdœmon’s voice calling him back.

He mounted his horse and rode toward the harbor, where he intended to take a boat for Munkholm, thinking that there he might find the stranger who had given rise to such serious thoughts in the greatest feather-brain of a feather-brained capital.

“If that was Ordener Guldenlew,” he reflected, “then my poor Ulrica--But no; it is impossible that he could be such a fool as to prefer the penniless daughter of a prisoner of State to the wealthy daughter of an all-powerful minister. At any rate, Schumacker’s daughter can be no more than a caprice; and there is nothing to hinder a man who has a wife from having a mistress too; in fact, it is quite the stylish thing. But no, it was not Ordener. The viceroy’s son would never wear such a shabby jacket. And that old black plume without a buckle, beaten by the wind and rain! And that great cloak, big enough for a tent! And that disordered hair, with no combs and no frizzes! And those boots with iron spurs, covered with mud and dust! Indeed, it could never be he. Baron Thorwick is a knight of the Dannebrog. That fellow wore no decoration. If I were a knight of the Dannebrog, I believe I should wear the collar of the order to bed. Oh, no! He had never even read ‘Clelia.’ No, it was not the viceroy’s son.”

XI.

If man could still retain his warmth of soul when experience has taught him, if he could inherit the legacies of time without bending beneath the weight, he would never attack those exalted virtues whose first lesson is ever self-sacrifice.--MADAME DE STAËL: _Germany_.

“Well, what is it? You, Poël! what brings you here?”

“Your Excellency forgets that you yourself summoned me.”

“Did I?” said the general. “Oh, I wanted you to hand me that portfolio.”

Poël handed the governor the portfolio, which he could have reached himself by stretching out his arm.

His Excellency mechanically replaced it without opening it; then he turned over some papers in an absentminded way.

“Poël, I was going to ask you--What time is it?”

“Six o’clock in the morning,” replied the general’s servant, who was facing the clock.

“I was going to tell you, Poël--What is the news to-day at the palace?”

The general went on shuffling his papers, writing a few words on each with a preoccupied air.

“Nothing, your Excellency, except that we are still expecting my noble master, about whom I see the general is anxious.”

The general rose from his big writing-table, and looked at Poël somewhat angrily.

“Your eyes are very poor, Poël. I, anxious about Ordener, indeed! I know the reason for his absence; I do not expect him yet.”

General Levin de Knud was so jealous of his authority that he would have considered it compromised had a subaltern been able to guess his secret thoughts, and learn that Ordener had acted without his orders.

“Poël,” he added, “you may go.”

The servant left the room.

“Really,” exclaimed the general when he was left alone, “Ordener uses and abuses his privileges. A blade too often bent will break. To make me spend a night in sleepless impatience! To expose General Levin to the sarcasms of a chancellor’s wife and the conjectures of a servant! And all this that an aged enemy may have those first greetings which are due to an old friend! Ordener! Ordener! whims are destructive of liberty! Let him come, only let him come now, deuce take me if I don’t receive him as gunpowder does fire,--I’ll blow him up! To expose the governor of Throndhjem to a servant’s conjectures and a she-chancellor’s sarcasms! Let him come!”

The general went on making marginal notes on his papers without reading them, so all-absorbing was his ill-temper.

“General! my noble father!” cried a familiar voice; and Ordener clasped in his arms the old man, who did not even try to repress a cry of joy.

“Ordener, my good Ordener! Zounds! how glad I am!” He collected his thoughts in the middle of his phrase. “I am glad, Baron, that you have learned to control your feelings. You seem pleased to see me again. It was probably to mortify your flesh, that you deprived yourself of that pleasure for a whole day and night.”

“Father, you have often told me that an unfortunate enemy should be put before a fortunate friend. I come from Munkholm.”

“Of course,” said the general, “when the enemy’s misfortune is imminent. But Schumacker’s future--”

“Looks more threatening than ever. Noble General, there is an odious plot on foot against that unlucky man. Men born his friends, would ruin him; a man born his foe, must serve him.”

The general, whose face had gradually cleared, interrupted Ordener.

“Very good, my dear Ordener. But what are you talking about? Schumacker is under my protection. What men? What plots?”

Ordener could scarcely have replied plainly to this question. He had but very vague gleams of light, very uncertain suspicions as to the position of the man for whom he was about to expose his life. Many will think that he acted foolishly; but young hearts do what they think right by instinct, and not from calculation; and besides, in this world, where prudence is so barren and wisdom so caustic, who denies that generosity is folly? All is relative on earth, where all is limited; and virtue would be the greatest madness if there were no God behind man. Ordener was at the age to believe and to be believed. He risked his life trustingly. Even the general accepted reasons which would not have borne calm discussion.

“What plots? What men? Good father, in a few days I shall have solved the mystery; then you shall know all that I know. I must start off again to-night.”

“What!” cried the old man, “can you spare me but a few hours? Where are you going? Why are you going, my dear son?”

“You have sometimes allowed me, my noble father, to perform a praiseworthy act in secret.”

“Yes, my brave boy; but you are going without knowing why, and you know what an important affair requires your presence here.”

“My father has given me a month to consider the matter, and I shall devote that time to the interests of another. A good deed is often fruitful in good advice. Besides, we will see about it on my return.”

“How!” anxiously asked the general; “don’t you like this match? They say that Ulrica d’Ahlefeld is very beautiful. Tell me, have you seen her?”

“I believe I have,” said Ordener. “Yes, I believe that she is handsome.”

“Well?” rejoined the governor.

“Well,” said Ordener, “she will never be my wife.”

These cold, decisive words startled the general as if he had received a violent blow. He recalled the suspicions of the haughty countess.

“Ordener,” said he, shaking his head, “I ought to be wise, for I have sinned. Well, I am nothing but an old fool! Ordener, the prisoner has a daughter--”

“Oh,” cried the young man, “General, I wanted to speak to you of her. I ask your protection, father, for that helpless and oppressed young girl.”

“Indeed,” said the governor, gravely, “your request is urgent.”

Ordener recovered himself.

“And why should it not be urgent for a poor captive whose life, and, what is far more precious, her honor, is in danger?”

“Life! honor! Why, I still govern here, and I know nothing of all these horrors! Explain yourself.”

“Noble father, the lives of the prisoner and his defenceless daughter are threatened by an infernal plot.”

“What you say is serious. What proofs have you?”

“The oldest son of a powerful family is even now at Munkholm. He is there to seduce Countess Ethel; he told me so himself.”

The general started back.

“Good God! Poor, forlorn creature! Ordener, Ordener, Ethel and Schumacker are under my protection. Who is this wretch? What is the name of the family?”

Ordener approached the general and wrung his hand.

“It is the D’Ahlefeld family.”

“D’Ahlefeld!” said the governor. “Yes, it is all clear. Lieutenant Frederic is at Munkholm now. My noble Ordener, would they marry you to such a brood! I understand your aversion, Ordener.”

The old man, folding his arms, thought for some moments, then clasped Ordener in his embrace.

“Ordener, you may go. Your friends shall not lack protection; I will guard them. Yes, go; you are perfectly right. That infernal Countess d’Ahlefeld is here; did you know it?”

“The noble lady, Countess d’Ahlefeld,” said the usher, opening the door.

At that name, Ordener mechanically withdrew to the back of the room; and the countess, entering without seeing him, exclaimed,--

“General, your pupil is deceiving you. He never went to Munkholm.”

“Indeed?” said the general.

“Good gracious, no! My son Frederic, who has just left the palace, was on duty yesterday in the donjon, and he saw no one.”

“Really, noble lady?” repeated the general.

“So,” added the countess, with a triumphant smile, “you need not wait for your Ordener any longer, General.”

The governor was cold and calm.

“I am no longer expecting him, Countess, it is true.”

“General,” said the countess, turning, “I thought we were alone. Who is this?”

The countess looked searchingly at Ordener, who bowed.

“Really,” she continued, “I never saw him but once; still, if it were not for that dress, I should say--General, is this the viceroy’s son?”

“Himself, noble lady,” said Ordener, with another bow.

The countess smiled.

“In that case, permit a lady who will soon be more closely allied to you, to ask where you were yesterday, Count?”

“Count! I do not think that I am so unfortunate as to have lost my noble father yet, my lady countess.”

“Certainly not; that was not my meaning. It is better to become a count by taking a wife than by losing a father.”

“One is no better than the other, noble lady.”

The countess, although slightly confused, made up her mind to laugh heartily.

“Come, the stories that I have heard are true. Your manners are somewhat boorish; but you will grow more used to accepting gifts from fair hands when Ulrica d’Ahlefeld has put the chain of the Order of the Elephant about your neck.”

“A chain indeed!” said Ordener.

“You will see, General Levin,” resumed the countess, whose laugh was somewhat forced, “that your intractable pupil will not consent to receive his colonel’s brevet from a lady’s hand either.”

“You are right, Countess,” replied Ordener; “a man who wears a sword ought not to owe his epaulettes to a petticoat.”

The great lady’s face darkened.

“Ho! ho! whence comes the baron? Is it really true that your Highness was not at Munkholm yesterday?”

“Noble lady, I do not always satisfy all questions. But, General, you and I will meet again.”

Then, pressing the old man’s hand and bowing to the countess, he quitted the room, leaving the lady, amazed at the extent of her own ignorance, alone with the governor, who was furious at the amount of his knowledge.

XII.

The fellow that sits next him now, parts bread with him, and pledges the breath of him in a divided draught, is the readiest man to kill him.--SHAKESPEARE: _Timon of Athens_.

If the reader will transport himself to the highway leading from Throndhjem to Skongen, a narrow, stony road which skirts Throndhjem Fjord until it reaches the village of Vygla, he will not fail to hear the footsteps of two travellers, who left the city by what is known as Skongen Gate, at nightfall, and are rapidly climbing the range of hills up which the path to Vygla winds. Both are wrapped in cloaks. One walks with a firm, youthful step, his body erect and his head well up; the point of his sword hangs below the hem of his cloak, and in spite of the darkness, we see the plume in his cap waving in the breeze. The other is rather taller than his companion, but slightly bent; upon his back is a hump, doubtless formed by a wallet which is hidden by his large black mantle, whose ragged edges bear witness to its long and faithful service. His only weapon is a stick, with which he supports his rapid and uneven steps.

If darkness prevent our reader from distinguishing the features of the two travellers, he may perhaps recognize them by the conversation which one of them opens after an hour of silent, consequently tedious travel.

“Master, my young master! we have reached the point from which Vygla tower and Throndhjem spires may both be seen at the same time. Before us, on the horizon, that black mass is the tower; behind us lies the cathedral; its flying buttresses, darker still against the sky, stand out like the skeleton ribs of a mammoth.”

“Is Vygla far from Skongen?” asked the other wayfarer.

“We have to cross the Ordals, sir; we shall not reach Skongen before three o’clock in the morning.”

“What hour is that striking now?”

“Good heavens, master! you make me shiver. Yes, that is Throndhjem clock; the wind brings the sound to us. That’s a sign of storm. The northwest wind brings clouds.”

“In truth, the stars have all disappeared behind us.”

“Pray let us make haste, my noble lord, the storm is close at hand, and Gill’s corpse and my escape may already have been discovered in the city. Let us make haste!”

“Willingly. Old man, your load seems heavy; give it to me, I am younger and stronger than you.”

“No, indeed, noble master; it is not for the eagle to carry the shell of the tortoise. I am too far beneath you for you to burden yourself with my wallet.”

“But, old man, if it tires you? It seems heavy. What have you in it? Just now you stumbled, and it clinked as if there were iron in it.”

The old man sprang away from the young man.

“It clinked, master? Oh, no! you are mistaken. It contains nothing--but food, clothes. No, it does not tire me, sir.”

The young man’s friendly offer seemed to give his old comrade a fright which he tried to disguise.