CHAPTER VII.
[THE DUEL AND THE ROSE].
An hour afterwards the seconds had arranged all that was needful. The next morning, in the earliest dawn, two carriages were seen driving to a secluded spot at the farther end of the Prater.
Count Rivero and Herr von Stielow, with the seconds and a surgeon, walked over the dewy ground of a small grassy opening amongst the trees.
The preparations were quickly concluded.
Two crossed swords marked the barrier. The pistols were loaded, and each combatant placed himself ten paces from the barrier. Lieutenant von Stielow was very pale; his face bore traces of a sleepless night, and there were dark circles below his eyes. Yet his expression was calm, almost joyful.
His second, an officer of his regiment, stepped up to him and handed him the pistols.
"There is yet time," he said, "for a little word of apology, and all mischief will be avoided."
"You know I am always ready to bear the consequences of my words and actions," replied Herr von Stielow; "to draw back now would be unworthy and cowardly. But make yourself easy--I, at least, will do no mischief."
He took the pistols. The seconds stepped aside.
The opponents saluted with their weapons.
The count looked fresh and calm, and showed no trace of emotion.
He had the first shot, and the right of advancing to the barrier.
He did not take a step forward, but raised his pistol, lowered it slightly, and fired.
Lieutenant von Stielow's képi flew from his head--the ball had hit the upper rim.
The lieutenant raised his arm, took aim for a moment, but, as the seconds could see, much too high, and the ball flew two feet above his adversary's head.
"Count," said the lieutenant, with calm courtesy, "what honour and custom amongst those of our position required, is now accomplished. I beg to apologize for my words of yesterday."
The count came forward hastily, a look of great satisfaction shining in his eyes, as a master who is well pleased with the conduct of a pupil. And with dignity, but great kindness, he offered the young lieutenant his hand.
"Not a word more," he said, heartily.
"Yes," said von Stielow, "I must beg for one word more, and that I may say it to you alone."
The count bowed, and they walked together into the wood, out of the hearing of the seconds.
"Count," said the lieutenant, and his lip trembled slightly, "what I have to say--what I have to request, will, I fear, seem extraordinary to you, but I hope you will reply to my question as frankly as I ask it. Before we had exchanged shots it would have been a new insult; now I venture to put it as from one man of honour to another."
The count looked at him inquiringly.
"How do you stand with--that lady?" asked Herr von Stielow; "you have a perfect right not to reply, but if you will answer me, you will do me a favour I shall never forget," he added warmly.
The count considered for a moment, and fixed his calm gaze on the eyes of the young man who stood before him anxiously awaiting his reply.
"I will answer you," he said; and he drew from the pocket of his over-coat a letter-case, and taking from it a letter, handed it to Herr von Stielow.
He looked through it. He smiled, half sorrowfully, half contemptuously. The count's dark eye rested on him with deep sympathy.
"One more request," said the young officer, "which can only be justified by the strange position in which we are placed."
The count bowed.
"Will you lend me this letter? I give you my word of honour not to retain it more than an hour, and that no eyes, save those of a certain lady, shall see it," said von Stielow.
"This, too, is granted--a proof of my unbounded confidence."
"I take it, then, and I thank you from my heart."
"And now, sir," said the count, in a deep resonant voice, "permit me to request your friendship. I am older than yourself, and many of life's circumstances, which are still strange to you, lie before me like an open book, and the book of life cannot be read without pain and sorrow. The hand of a friend, of an older and experienced friend, is a great protection--mine is always at your service."
And with a frank and noble movement Count Rivero offered the young officer his hand. Stielow seized it, not without emotion.
"I have behaved like a foolish child," he cried, with candid heartiness, "and I have to thank you for much; perhaps, for a happy change in my life."
They returned to the seconds, and drove back to town.
Herr von Stielow went home, seated himself at his writing table, and placed three bank notes, each for a thousand gulden, in a large envelope; he added the letter with which Count Rivero had entrusted him. He sealed and addressed the packet, then he rang.
"Take this immediately to Madame Balzer in the Ringstrasse. Give it into her own hands," said he to the servant.
Then he stretched out his arms with a deep-drawn breath, and threw himself into an arm chair.
"The meteor has vanished for ever!" he cried; "now shine kindly upon me, thou pure, fair star, whose clear light smiles so peacefully."
His eyes closed; Nature claimed her rights after the wakeful night and the excitement of the morning.
Late in the afternoon of the same day, some of the guests whom we met formerly at Countess Mensdorff's, were assembled in a large and elegant drawing-room of a beautiful old house in the Herrengasse, in Vienna.
The small fire burning in the marble fire-place cast glowing reflections on the polished parquet floor. A hanging lustre, with three branches, shed an agreeable light over the room, and here and there sparkled upon the gold frames on the walls containing the family portraits. Opposite the fire-place stood a large table, upon which was a beautiful bronze lamp with a large blue glass shade, and the high-backed chairs and sofas were covered with dark blue silk.
The mistress of the house, Countess Frankenstein, sat on a sofa near the table. She was an elderly lady of that type of the Austrian aristocracy which so strongly recalls the old French noblesse of the ancien régime, but possesses also the Austrian kindliness and Austrian national feeling, a combination which makes the higher circles of society in Vienna so peculiarly attractive.
The lady's partially grey hair was carefully arranged; a high dress of rich dark silk fell around her in heavy folds, and beautifully-set old diamonds gleamed in her brooch, her ear-rings and bracelet.
Beside her sat the Countess Clam Gallas.
On a low chair at her mother's side sat the young countess, in a beautiful toilette, which showed she was going out later in the evening.
Count Clam stood before her, leaning on the back of a chair.
They spoke of the great question of the day, and the whole party were much excited by the ever-increasing certainty of the war about to break out.
"I was with Mensdorff this morning," said Count Clam Gallas; "he told me he could count the days before the declaration of war. After we, as was only right, summoned the confederation to decide upon the fate of the Duchies, General von Manteuffel marched into Holstein."
"But that is war!" cried Countess Frankenstein; "and what has happened? What has Gablenz done?"
"Gablenz is here already," replied the count, "and his troops are returning; we are in too small numbers there, and too much scattered, to do anything. We are daily expecting orders to join the army in Bohemia. Count Karolyi will be recalled from Berlin, and in Frankfort the decree will be published for the mobilization of the whole of the Army of the Confederation against Prussia."
"At last then," cried Countess Clam Gallas, "upstart Prussia will receive due punishment, and all the evil the Hohenzollerns have done to our Imperial House will be avenged."
"But how about Hanover?" asked Countess Frankenstein. "Is not Gablenz to remain there with his troops?"
"Hanover has not yet decided," said the count.
"Incredible!" cried Countess Frankenstein and Countess Clam Gallas in one breath.
"Has then Count Platen forgotten all his friendship for Austria?"
The young countess sighed.
"What is it, countess?" asked Count Clam Gallas; "our ladies must not sigh when we mount horse, and draw the sword for the honour of old Austria."
"I am thinking of the poor things whose blood must flow," said the young countess, and she looked up as if she saw a picture of some scene of horror.
The door was thrown open, and Lieutenant Field Marshal Baron Reischach announced.
The Baron entered, smiling and cheerful as ever. He saluted the ladies in his knightly style, with the familiarity of an old acquaintance.
"You have grown, Countess Clara," said he jestingly; "this child really looks over our heads."
He seated himself, and held out his hand to Count Clam Gallas.
"You favoured being," he said, "you will soon be in the field!"
"I expect orders hourly."
"We old cripples must stay at home," said Reischach, sadly, and a look of grave melancholy passed over his jovial countenance, but soon vanished again. "I saw Benedek before he started for Bohemia," he then said.
"Has he gone already?" asked Countess Clam Gallas.
"He has started," said the Baron, "and he is now on the road that leads to the Capitol or to the Tarpeian rock. He expressed that in a different way, certainly, but not less excellently."
"Tell us how he expressed it," cried Countess Clam Gallas; "it was no doubt one of those strong speeches which no one but himself would ever think of."
"'In six weeks,' said he thoughtfully, 'I shall either be on a pedestal, or not even a dog will snarl at me!'"
They all laughed aloud.
"Excellent!" cried Countess Clam Gallas; "and does he believe in the 'pedestal?'"
"Not very much," replied the baron; "he does not trust the spirit and the order of the army, and he does not trust himself."
"He may judge of himself as he will," cried Count Clam Gallas vehemently; "but the army he has no right to mistrust. The army is excellent, and its order exemplary; though truly, if General Benedek continues to treat the officers, and especially the noble officers, as he has commenced, and always to take the part of the common soldiers and the sub-officers, order will not last long."
And the count with an angry movement pushed away the chair on which he had leant, and paced up and down the room.
"It is certainly not my place," after a few moments, he said somewhat more calmly, "to call in question his majesty's choice of commanding officers, but I cannot feel great confidence in this Benedek and his method. The feelings that dwell in the hearts of the old Austrian nobility he cannot understand, and his so-called liberal principles destroy discipline. It may be very well in an army like the Prussian, where every one is a soldier--I understand nothing about that; but for us it will not answer; still less will it answer to attempt novelties which will place the army in opposition to their officers on the eve of a great war."
The count had spoken with much warmth. No one replied, and there was a momentary silence. Baron von Reischach interrupted it by exclaiming--
"But do you know, ladies, the last great excitement in Vienna?"
"No," replied Countess Clam Gallas, "what is it? a fresh success of Wolter's, or a new eccentricity of Gallmeyer's?"
"Something much better than either," replied the baron, "a very piquant duel."
"A duel? and between whom? do we any of us know them?" asked Countess Frankenstein.
"It was between our little Uhlan von Stielow," said Baron Reischach, "and that Italian Count Rivero whom you will remember well; he was here some time back with the Nuncio."
"How very extraordinary!" exclaimed Countess Frankenstein; "has Count Rivero been here long?"
"He came yesterday," replied Herr von Reischach.
"And in twenty-four hours a rencontre took place with Herr von Stielow?" asked Countess Clam Gallas.
"It appears," said the baron, "that a lady is in the case. You have surely heard of the beautiful Madame Balzer?"
The young Countess Frankenstein stood up and walked to the darkest part of the drawing-room to a flower-table. There she bent over the flowers.
"I have heard the name of this lady in connexion with Herr von Stielow," said Countess Clam Gallas.
"The new rights and the old came in collision," remarked the baron.
"And has any thing serious happened?" asked Count Clam Gallas.
"Not that I heard," replied von Reischach, "but I fear for our friend Stielow; Count Rivero is well known as an excellent shot. But where is our young countess?" he said, breaking off suddenly and turning his head towards the other end of the drawing-room.
She was still bending over the flowers. Her mother gave her a quick anxious look. She came slowly back to the light, with a freshly gathered rose in her hand. Her face was very pale and her lips tightly closed.
"I have plucked a rose," she said, in a voice that trembled slightly, "to complete my toilette."
She fastened the rose into her dress, and took her place again mechanically.
"Ah! I forgot the Countess Wilezek's soirée," cried Countess Clam Gallas rising, "you will wish to prepare, and I must go home first."
"Allow me to accompany you," said Baron von Reischach, and they all took leave.
The mother and daughter were alone. There was a silence.
"Mamma," said Countess Clara at last, "I do not feel well, and I would rather stay at home."
Her mother gave her a sympathising look.
"My child," she said, "remember, I pray, what will be said if you do not appear to-night, especially as you have already been seen."
The young lady supported her head with her hand; a sob echoed through the silence of the room, and her slender figure trembled, tears fell on the rose in her bosom.
A servant threw open the door, exclaiming, "Baron von Stielow."
Countess Frankenstein looked amazed, her daughter rose quickly; a deep blush glowed on her face, she sank back in her chair, and her eyes still swimming in tears were fixed on the door. The footman took the silence of the countess for consent, as it was her custom to receive at that hour, and disappeared.
Lieutenant von Stielow entered.
He was as cheerful as ever; no trace of the emotions of the morning appeared on his face, only his former expression of good-humoured carelessness had gone; a grave, an almost solemn earnestness was seen in his whole bearing, his eyes shone with a calm brilliance. His unusual earnestness made him look more handsome than before.
He walked towards the ladies. Countess Clara cast down her eyes and played with her handkerchief. Her mother received the young officer with perfect calmness.
"We have not seen you for some time, Herr von Stielow," she said; "where have you been disporting yourself?"
"Our duty is more strict than it was, countess," said von Stielow, "and leaves us but little time--war seems decided upon, so we ought to get a little accustomed to some of its inconveniences."
"Herr von Reischach has just been here, and he spoke of you," said the countess.
"What did he say?" cried von Stielow anxiously; "he told, I fear, some malicious history?"
And his eyes sought the young countess, who continued to look down, and who made no movement.
"He caused us to fear that something had happened to you," said the countess, glancing at him from head to foot, "but I see he was mistaken."
Herr von Stielow smiled, but it was not the merry laugh he would have given a short time before at the lucky termination of a duel; it was a serious happy smile.
"Herr von Reischach takes too great an interest in me," he said, "and the fears he expressed on my behalf are groundless."
Countess Frankenstein looked round quickly at her daughter.
"Are you going this evening to Countess Wilezek's?" she asked.
"I have never been introduced to her," replied the young officer in a tone of regret.
"At least you will accompany us there, will you not?" said the countess rising; "I have a slight alteration to make in my toilette; my daughter is quite ready and will entertain you until I return."
Herr von Stielow rose and said, joy beaming from his eyes:
"I am quite at your commands, countess."
Countess Frankenstein left the room without heeding the appealing looks of her daughter. The two young people were left alone. They were silent. At last Stielow approached the young lady's chair:--
"Countess Clara!" he said in a low voice.
The young countess raised her eyes and looked at him with surprise, while an expression of pain appeared on her lips. The light fell on her face as she lifted her head, and he saw that her eyelids were slightly red.
"Good heavens!" he cried, "you have been weeping?"
"No," said the young lady firmly, "I have a headache. I have begged mamma to leave me at home this evening."
"Countess Clara," he said, in the same earnest, gentle voice, "I wish to give you an answer to a question--an explanation," he stammered, "of a conversation we had at Countess Mensdorff's. I have never since spoken to you alone."
She interrupted him.
"This is scarcely a time to answer questions," she said, with a half scornful, half melancholy smile, "which I have already forgotten."
"But I have not forgotten them, and I must give an answer."
She made a movement of refusal. Without heeding it, he asked:--
"Do you believe my word when I give it you as a nobleman?"
She raised her eyes to his face, and said, "Yes."
"I thank you for your trust in me, Countess Clara," he said. "I give you my word of honour I am free--free as the air and light, from every chain."
An expression of joyful surprise passed over her face.
"I do not understand you," she said in a low voice.
"Yes, Countess Clara, you understand me," he cried vehemently, "though I have not told the whole truth. I am free from a fetter which was unworthy; but I seek a chain to bind me for ever to my happiness--a chain that I can wear without a blush."
She was extremely agitated. She looked at him for a moment before she again cast down her eyes, and in that look he thought he read an answer to his hopes, for, with a happy smile, he came a step nearer to her.
"I do not understand all this," she stammered; "explain to me."
"I cannot explain," he interrupted, "to a strange lady, only to her who gives me the right to consecrate my life to her, and to have no secret from her."
"Good Heavens! Herr von Stielow," she cried, still more embarrassed, "I ask you seriously to explain."
"Then you give me the right to explain to you?"
"I did not say so," she cried, and rose.
She walked towards the door by which her mother had left the room. He hastened to her, and seized her hand.
"Give me an answer, Clara," he cried.
She stood still, with drooping head.
"Clara," he cried again, in a low, earnest tone, "you wear a rose on your breast. In olden days, ladies gave to the knight whose love and service they accepted for ever, a gift, to be a sacred talisman in battle, and to be with them in death. We, too, are on the eve of bloody days. Clara, will you give me that rose?"
"The rose is a symbol of purity and truth," she said gravely.
"It is the symbol, then, of her who dwells in my heart, and who will dwell there for ever," he cried, and added, in an imploring tone, "Clara, I am worthy of the rose!"
She fixed her eyes on his, and gazed at him for several moments. Then she raised her hand slowly, unfastened the rose from her dress, and held it towards him, blushing and trembling, as she cast down her eyes.
He walked passionately towards her, seized the rose, and covered the hand that held it with kisses.
"Clara," he said, firmly and gravely, "this flower will fade, but the happiness you have given me will bloom in my heart as long as it continues to beat. Heaven, I thank thee!" he cried, "I have found my star!"
He drew her gently towards him.
Without speaking a word, she leant her beautiful head on his breast, and wept gently.
Countess Frankenstein entered. At the rustle of her dress, her daughter hastened to her, and threw herself into her arms. Herr von Stielow approached the old lady.
"Countess," he said, "I can only repeat to you what I said to your daughter in my great happiness. I have found my star. May it not light the heaven of my life for ever?"
The countess showed surprise, mixed with a certain amount of satisfaction.
"I leave the answer to my daughter," said she; "and will abide by her decision."
"And what do you say, Countess Clara?" he asked.
She held out her hand.
"Then may God bless you!" said the countess, as she gently put her daughter from her, and held out her hand in her turn to the young man, who kissed it respectfully.
"Now," cried the countess, "we must go. We shall see you to-morrow, Herr von Stielow. To-day you will only afford us your protection to Countess Wilezek's."
"Oh, mamma," cried Countess Clara, "can we not stay at home to-day?"
"No, my child," said her mother, "people would make remarks, and you know I like everything to be done in the correct manner. It is the foundation of all true and lasting happiness."
"Well, then," cried Herr von Stielow, "adieu until to-morrow; my newly-risen star will light up the night until the dawn!"
His betrothed gave him a smile. There was a half troubled, half roguish question in her look.
He raised the rose he held in his hand, pressed it to his lips, and hid it beneath his uniform upon his breast.
The countess rang. A servant brought the ladies' mantles. Herr von Stielow accompanied them in their carriage to the palace of Countess Wilezek, in Wallnerstrasse. After he had taken leave of them, he walked dreamily through the evening streets of the capital.
Clear merry voices rang through the open windows of the Café Daun. The numerous officers of every branch of the service congregated there rejoiced at the prospect of war, and many cheerful voices rang out into the night, destined soon to be mute for ever.
Von Stielow hesitated for a moment before the entrance of the Café Daun, but the noisy mirth of his comrades did not suit his present mood.
He walked on. He thought over all that had occurred, and rejoiced at the quarrel which had brought him freedom.
He pursued his way along the Graben, by the rothe Thurmstrasse, and, sunk in sweet dreams, he followed the banks of the Danube. He was near the Aspern bridge. A man in a dark cloak came up to him.
"God bless me! Herr von Stielow," he cried, accosting the young officer, "you were going along as if you had become a philosopher, and were seeking the stone of wisdom."
"Good evening, dear Knaak," replied the lieutenant, holding out his hand to the well-known and favourite comic actor of the Karl Theatre, "what brings you here? Is the theatre over already?"
"I do not act to-night," replied Knaak, "and I am just going to the Hôtel de l'Europe, where all our people are to be. Come too, and laugh with us a little."
Herr von Stielow thought for a moment. He felt a repugnance to going home; he was too excited for serious conversation; how could he better pass the evening hours than with these cheerful people, who, in their merry thoughtlessness and happy natures, form an eternal world of youth in the midst of serious life.
He placed his arm within the actor's, and said:--
"Well, dear Knaak, I will come with you, to see if these warlike times affect the humour of the Karl Theatre."
"My dear sir," replied Knaak, "all the Krupp cannons added to all the needle guns in the world, could not disturb us,--that is to say," he added, gravely, "if we were all together. I, for my own part, am often sad enough when alone: for I am a North German by birth, and all my early recollections lie north; but now I am in heart an Austrian, and the war which is before us makes me very wretched."
"It must be so with many of us," replied von Stielow; "my home, too, lies in the north. It is a melancholy war,--although, as a soldier, I cannot but rejoice that this sword, which has so long been dragged over the pavement, is at last to be used in earnest."
A slight sigh did not quite harmonize with this warlike zeal; perhaps he thought of the newly risen star of his life, and feared it soon might set in bloody clouds.
They had reached the large Hôtel de l'Europe, which, with the Crown Prince Hôtel, occupies the whole length of the Asperngasse. They went into the spacious restaurant through the large doorway, and having passed through it, they came to a closed door, through which they heard cheerful voices and merry laughter.
Knaak opened the door, and with von Stielow entered a somewhat small square room, adorned with hunting pieces and pastoral scenes, where a motley company were assembled around a table on which stood a cold supper, already showing in some of the principal dishes large gaps, proving the assaults that had been made upon it. On the table stood a large bowl filled with fragrant punch; and silver wine coolers filled with ice showed the white heads of champagne bottles peeping from them.
In the midst of the company sat the whimsical queen of the Karl Theatre, the spoilt and sometimes naughty favourite of the public, Josephine Gallmeyer.
Beside her sat her especial friend old Grois, the last remaining actor of the times of Nestroy--a strongly made man with coarse features, with which he was however capable of rendering every shade of expression, and a voice full of comic modulation.
On the other side of the table sat alone and thoughtful the young actor Matras, with his handsome intelligent face, which can represent on the stage of to-day the true old Viennese fun; and near him, in earnest conversation, sat Mademoiselle Schwöder, a dark-eyed young singer, and Doctor Herzel, editor and critic, a man of middle height with a quick intelligent face.
The entrance of Knaak and von Stielow was hailed with joy by the Gallmeyer; she seized a champagne cork lying near her, threw it at them, and cried:
"Thank God for two sensible men. Come here, Knaak, sit by me; and you, Herr von Stielow, opposite, that I may look at your uniform,--I like it. I could not have borne these weary folks much longer. Matras sits there and says nothing, and the Schwöder and the Doctor are like a pair of folded gloves, and then there is old Grois,"--she shook the old actor roughly by the shoulder,--"he has given a moral lecture. You can think how amusing that was."
She seized a bottle of champagne and poured out a large glass of the pearling fluid for Knaak who sat beside her.
"There, drink it," she cried merrily, "and may it make you witty."
"My life!" she exclaimed, as she looked at von Stielow, who, following her directions, had seated himself opposite; "My life! Herr von Stielow, how handsome you are to-day; whatever has happened to you; you look really splendid!"
"Take care, Herr von Stielow," said Knaak, "if Pepi falls in love with you it is all up with you, 'tis a case of
"And seek I e'er
A knight t' ensnare
Resistance nought avails him."
She tapped Knaak upon the mouth as she cried:
"All very well, but when people look as romantic as Stielow there, they are of no use to me. I wager he has not a bit of room in his heart. Besides," she added, with the greatest gravity, "I don't fall in love so easily. I must see the baptismal registry first."
"What for?" asked von Stielow.
"She must know if he is of age and free to spend his money," said Matras.
"Matras is always thinking of money, poor fellow! he has so little," she cried, "but no, that's not it. You see I made up my mind, my lover and I should never have more than fifty years between us, and so the older I get the younger must be my lover, to make me quite sure that he has no more years than fall to his share. I have made up my mind, and I shall always stick to it."
They all laughed.
"Then you will soon come to swaddling clothes," remarked old Grois drily.
"Papa Grois," cried she, "don't make such bad jokes; I have enough of them, from 'swaddling clothes' to 'experienced persons.'"
"And where is the Grobecker?" asked Knaak.
"She has quarrelled with her duke," said Doctor Herzel.
"What again, already?"
"She maintains he is making love to little Pepi, and she will not have it."
"What a passion it is!" cried the Gallmeyer. "Soon there will only be duchesses and princesses acting in the Karl Theatre. Well, for my part I shall stick to Pepi Gallmeyer."
And she sang,
"My mother is a washerwoman,
And but a ballad girl am I,
And when a sweetheart comes to woo,
Away I to the washtub fly."
"Yes, it is true," said Grois; "you would be spoilt as a duchess. Do you know what she did the other day? The Duke della Rotunda gave us a great supper at his hotel. It was all quite princely, and footmen in white stockings handed the most excellent dishes. Pepi did nothing but gape; at last she said, 'My lord duke, where is the Schwemme? I can't stand this, 'tis too fine for me.'"
"What is the Schwemme?" asked von Stielow.
"It is what they call the second class restaurants in Vienna; they have them in every hotel here to accommodate traveller's servants."
"And they are a thousand times more amusing than that tiresome old duke, with his silver candlesticks and stork-legged lacqueys," laughed the Gallmeyer.
The door was opened hastily, and a beautiful young woman holding a newspaper in her hand entered. It was Madame Friedrich-Materna, an opera-singer, then engaged at the Karl Theatre.
"Have you heard it yet?" she cried, "war is declared, or as good as declared; it is here in the 'Evening Post;' our ambassador is recalled from Berlin, and the army is ordered to march into Bohemia."
"Then it is all up with us," cried the Gallmeyer, "all up with merry Vienna; and," she added, glancing compassionately at von Stielow, "alas! how many handsome young fellows will get shot."
Old Grois raised his head.
"We must have something patriotic in the theatre, something of the good old kind; monkey tricks won't do, when a bloody tragedy is being played outside."
"I must go to the editor's office," said Doctor Herzel, with some importance. He rose and seized his hat.
A waiter entered.
"Is Baron von Stielow here?" he asked.
"What is it?" cried the young officer.
"Your servant with an orderly; they have been looking every where for you."
"Duty," cried von Stielow, and rose--
"Farewell, my hosts. Your health, Fräulein Pepi."
He emptied a glass of punch and left the room. A cavalry soldier in a cuirassier uniform handed him a sealed official paper.
The young officer opened it. His face expressed happy pride.
"On the staff of General Gablenz!" he cried joyfully.
"Where is the general?" he asked.
"In the Hôtel zur Stadt Frankfurt, Herr Lieutenant."
"All right; I come!"
And with a quick step he hurried along the shores of the Danube, not dreamily, as he had come, but with head proudly raised, sparkling eyes, smiling lips, and his sword clattering on the pavement.
Suddenly he walked more slowly. A cloud passed over his brow.
"I am to march out to this merry war at which every soldier's heart beats higher, and at the side of a general, whom every Austrian rider regards with pride and admiration, and yet--what a scarcely tasted happiness I leave behind--shall I ever find it more?"
Slower and slower grew his steps, until at last he stood quite still; and lost in thought he gazed into the Danube, where the bright lamps on the bridge were reflected.
"The shining light up there," he murmured, "below cold, grey death!"
With a hasty movement he awoke from his reverie. "What is love," he cried, "if it makes us sad and cowardly! No, my sweet lady, I will be thy brave proud knight, and thy talisman shall bring me honour."
He drew the rose from his breast and pressed it to his lips. Then he walked on with a quick merry step, and with laughing lips he hummed to himself--
"And had she not promised my life to be,
No life would ever be won by me!"