CHAPTER XI.
Two men from the village have, under old Baumann's superintendence, removed the snow in the park of Berkow at a place close to the edge of the beech forest, and where in summer a beautiful view may be had over the meadow, which slopes gradually down to the garden and the castle. They have dug a grave there in the black earth, and in the deep grave the gypsy woman sleeps now the deep, eternal sleep, weary from her restless wandering through this checkered, restless life, which has brought her so little happiness.
When the weather cleared up, a few days later, and the store-houses filled with snow seemed to have been emptied for a time, and when it had been possible to clear the walks through the garden and the park down to the forest itself, Melitta might often be seen, with Julius and Czika by her side, walking down to the grave of the gypsy, which is now marked by a large lock of granite, bearing simply the name of Xenobia on its one smoothly-polished side. Melitta is almost always holding the brown child by the hand, and speaks more frequently to her than to her son, who in his turn waits on the child with almost chivalrous tenderness. "When the roads are a little better I will drive you in my sleigh, Czika. Oh, I have a beautiful sleigh; I'll show it to you when we get back. And we will go out quite alone. The pony knows me better than any one else; I have only to clack my tongue, and off he goes like lightning; and when I say: Brr, Pony! he stands as quiet as a lamb. Don't you think, mamma, I can go out quite alone with Czika?"
"If Czika is willing to go with you, why not?"
Czika's dark face had brightened up a little while Julius was speaking, but now a cloud was passing over it once more.
"Czika would like to have Hamet back again," she said, looking with her gazelle eyes into the far distance.
"Who is Hamet, Czika?" inquired Julius.
"Hamet? Hamet is Czika's donkey!"
"Pshaw; a donkey!" cries the boy, curving his upper lip contemptuously; but a glance from his mother's eye makes a sudden blush of shame to rise on his cheek.
"Where is your donkey, Czika?" he asks, with kindly sympathy.
"Hamet is dead, Mother and I buried him in the forest."
"Why, that's a pity. Well, never mind, Czika; I will buy you another one. You know, mamma, Mr. Griebenow, the gamekeeper at Fashwitz, has a big donkey, with such immense ears. Oh, Czika! the pony always shies when we meet him. But that does not matter. He must get accustomed to it, or else"--and Julius threatened him with his switch--"I'll soon teach him better. Wont you, mamma, wont you let me go over with Baumann and buy the donkey? Griebenow has offered him to me several times. Wont you, dear mamma?"
"Certainly," said Melitta; "and his name shall be Hamet."
"Oh that is beautiful," cried Julius; "and then we can ride out, all three of us. You on Bella, I on the pony, and Czika on Hamet; and then--but no, I am afraid Hamet wont be able to keep up with us!" he interrupts himself, and looks very grave and sober.
"Then we will go slowly."
"Well, to be sure, we can do that. We will ride very slowly, Czika; I should not like you to have a fall for anything in the world."
Thus the boy prattles on; and Melitta is delighted to see that his prattling and his cheerful ways have some effect upon Czika. She thinks of the time when the Brown Countess first came to Berkow, and how she had wished even then, long before she had any suspicion that the girl could be Oldenburg's child, to keep her, and to bring her up with her Julius; and how strangely her wish had now come to be fulfilled. And then her thoughts are wandering into the future, and of the possible time when she may call these children "our children." And when they get to the granite block, and she has placed a wreath of immortelles on it, she takes the two children in her arms and kisses them, and says: "My children, my dear dear children!"
Melitta was all day busy with Czika; and if Julius had not been himself so devoted to the pretty little girl he might well have become jealous. Czika even sleeps with his mother, and mamma puts her to bed herself every evening--or, rather, puts her on her couch, for Czika's bed consists as yet only of a few blankets spread on the floor, for she has declared, in her own grave and solemn way: "Czika will die if you put her into a bed." The little one retires very early--generally as soon as it is dark out-doors; so that Oldenburg, who comes over at that time from Cona, does not find her any more in the sitting-room. He has occasionally gone with Melitta and stood by her couch, but he does not do it any more, as the child sleeps very lightly, and the slightest noise wakes her up. He is content now to hear from Melitta that "their daughter" is doing well, that she has been out walking or riding with "their children," and that "their Czika" has called her "mother" to-day, for the first time.
"I fear I shall never hear her call me father," says Oldenburg, sadly.
"We must be patient, Adalbert," replies Melitta.
Hermann has taken more pleasure in unpacking his master's trunks than in packing them on that melancholy day. Oldenburg thinks no longer of leaving, since Melitta has asked him to stay, and the house at Berkow holds everything that is dear to his heart. Every day towards dark his sleigh jingles its bells in the courtyard of Berkow, and the young widow often appears on the threshold to welcome her daily visitor. Since the evening on which his child had been restored to him, Oldenburg has become more cheerful than he has ever been. He seems to have taken to heart Melitta's words--that it would be best to bear in patience what must be borne. He knows perfectly well what the beloved one had meant; he knows why she cannot yet look straight into his eyes with her own dear, sweet eyes. He is sorry it should be so; but he, who knows Melitta's noble soul better than anybody else, would have wondered most if it had been otherwise. Melitta no longer loves the man who had conquered her heart in an unguarded hour and in a storm of passion, but the wound which the joy and the sorrow of this love has inflicted on her heart is still bleeding, and here also time must do what reasoning cannot accomplish. The peculiar situation in which Oldenburg stands to Melitta is no doubt of great influence, for the time, on his whole manner of thinking and of feeling. He has laid aside the plans for the improvement of the world, which he formerly cherished, as impracticable, since he has found that he will have need of all his patience, prudence, and caution to steer the vessel that bears his own fortune, safely into port. He is all the more interested now in the management of his estates, and follows the politics of the day with unwearied interest. He regrets, when the representatives of his province hold their annual meeting, that he has dreamt away on the banks of the Nile the time which he owed to his country. Now it seems to him more important to discover new sources of public prosperity than those of the Nile. He perceives in his solitude the first traces of that revolution which is not only threatening in France, but which will unchain at the first outbreak the fearful thunderstorm that is now hanging gloomily over his own country.
Melitta takes a lively interest in all his hopes and fears, his wishes and plans, even in his impatience for the speedy coming of the hour which he feels must come. She understands it perfectly well that he wants to go to Paris in order to exchange his new views with his old friends there. He knows that this time she does not wish him away, but only thinks of himself, and on this account he decides to go.
Shortly before he leaves, Czika, who has become somewhat more communicative, tells him a remarkable circumstance. After Paris has been several times mentioned in her presence, the child suddenly begins to speak of an old man who had accompanied them for a long time, and who had at last brought them to this very place. Not far from the gates of Berkow, she says, he turned back. That man also had intended to go to Paris. They press the child, and at last there remains no doubt that the old man of whom she speaks was Berger. Who can tell why he left those whom he had so tenderly befriended almost at the threshold of the house? Who can tell what the strange man wants in Paris? Perhaps he is anxious to put his shoulder to the wheel and help them when help is needed; or, it may be, he will only convince himself that the restless mountain of revolution is once more to give birth to--nought!
Still, Oldenburg is startled by the news. He has made Berger's acquaintance in Fichtenau, when he was there on a visit to Melitta. He had then had many a philosophical and political conversation with the shrewd, enthusiastic man, in which the word Revolution was mentioned quite frequently.
"The musty odor of casemates, and the foul air of a state where the police is supreme, which I have been compelled to breathe all my life, have made me what people call crazy," the professor had once said; "I feel as if nothing but a breathful of free air in my own country would ever lift the burden that lies here," and with these words he had repeatedly pointed to his breast.
"A breathful of free air in his country!" repeated Oldenburg, as he packed his trunks; "yes, indeed! that would ease us all, every one of us, wonderfully!"