CHAPTER VI.
On his return home Sterzl found Sempaly's note of the day before. The porter had taken it, as he was ordered, to the secretary's office, but as Sterzl had not gone there all day it had lain unopened; till, this morning, one of the messengers had thought it well to bring it to the palazetto. Sterzl read it and hid his face in his hands.
Within a short time Sempaly's seconds were announced--Siegburg and a military attaché from the Russian embassy.
No, it could not be amicably arranged--under the circumstances there was but one way of satisfying the point of honor. This point of honor--what is it? A social dogma of the man of the world, and the whole creed of the southern aristocrat.
Sterzl was to start that night by the eleven o'clock train for Vienna, on matters of business, before setting out for Constantinople. The affair must therefore be settled at once. Beyond fixing the hour Sterzl left everything to his seconds. Swords, at seven that evening, among the ruins opposite the tomb of the Metellas was finally agreed on.
Soon after six, Sterzl and his seconds set out. The carriage bore them swiftly along, through the gloomy, stuffy streets which lead to the Forum, along the foot of the Palatine, and past the Colosseum, through the arch of Constantine into the Via Appia, on and on, between grey moss-grown walls, over which they caught glimpses of ruins and tall dark cypresses. Then the walls disappeared and bushy green hedge-rows, covered with creepers, bordered the road, and presently the Campagna lay before them, an endless, rolling, green carpet, with its attractive melancholy, and the poisonous beauty of orchids and asphodels with which each returning spring decks its waste monotony, like a wilderness in a fevered dream.
Sterzl sat in silence on the back seat, facing his two friends. He did not even pretend to be cheerful. A brave man may sometimes face death with indifference, but hardly with a light heart. Death is a great king to whom we must need do homage. His soul was heavy; but his two companions, who knew not only his staunch nature but all the circumstances of the duel, knew that it was not from anxiety as to his own fate. He could not forget that this catastrophe was, at last, due solely and entirely to his own violence and loss of self-command. He never once reflected that this engagement--brought about by a series of makeshifts and accidents--could hardly have resulted in a happy marriage; he had forgotten Sempaly's sins and remembered one thing only: that his sister might have had the moon she had longed for, and that he alone had snatched it from her grasp.
A powerful fragrance filled the air, coming up from the orchids, from the blossoming hedges, from the fresh greenery of the gardens, like the very soul of the spring, bringing a thousand memories to his brooding brain and aching heart. It reminded him of the great untended orchard at home, and of one morning in the last May he had spent there before going to school. The apple-trees were clothed with rosy blossom; butterflies were flitting through the air, and the first forget-me-nots peeped bluely among the trailing brambles on the brink of the brook that danced across the garden, murmuring sleepily to the shadowy, whispering alders. There was a fragrance of the soil, of the trees, of the flowers--just as there was now--and Zinka, then a mere baby, had come tripping to meet him and had said with her little confidential and important air:
"I do believe that God must have set the gates of heaven open for once, there is such a good smell." He could see her now, in her white pinafore and long golden hair, clinging to her big brother with her soft, weak little hands. And he had lifted her up and said: "Yes, God left the door open and you slipped out my-little cherub." With what large, wondering eyes she had looked into his face.
She had always been his particular pet; his father had given her into his special charge and now ... "poor, sweet butterfly!" he said to himself, half audibly.
"Do not be too strict in your fence," said a deep voice close to him. It was Crespigny who thus startled him from his dream of the past:--"Do not be too scientific. You have everything in your favor--practice, skill, and strength; but Sempaly--I know his sword-play well--has one dangerous peculiarity: you never know what he will be at." Sterzl looked over his shoulder. The tomb of Cecilia Metella was standing before them.
Opposite the tomb of Cecilia Metella is a deserted and half-ruined early Gothic structure, a singular mixed character of heathen grandeur and of mediæval strength, lonely and roofless under the blue sky. A weather-beaten cross, let into the crumbling stone-work above the door-way, betokens it a sanctuary of the primitive Christian times; on entering we see a still uninjured apse where the altar table once stood. No ornament of any kind, not even a scrap of bas-relief, is to be seen; nothing but frail ferns--light plumes of maiden hair that deck the old walls with their emerald fronds. The floor is smooth and covered with fine turf, from which, in spring-time, white and red daisies smile up at the sky, and dead nettles grow from every chink and along the foot of the walls.
The other party were already on the spot; Sempaly was talking unconcernedly, but with no affectation of levity, to the Russian, and bowed politely to the three men as they came in. His manner and conduct were admirable; in spite of his irritable nervousness, there were moments when he had--and in the highest degree--that unshaken steadfastness which is part of the discipline of a man of the world, to whom it is a matter of course that under certain circumstances he must fight, just as under certain others he must take off his hat.
Siegburg changed color a good deal; the others were quite cool. They made a careful survey lest some intruding listener should be within hearing, but all was still as death. The vineyard behind the little chapel was deserted.
The formalities were soon got through; Sempaly and Sterzl took off their coats and waistcoats, and took the places assigned to them by their seconds.
The signal was given.--The word of command was heard in the silence and, immediately after, the first click of the swords as they engaged.
Any one who has lived through the prolonged anticipation of a known peril or ordeal, knows that, when the decisive moment has arrived, the tension of the nerves suddenly relaxes; anxiety seems lifted from the soul, fear vanishes and all that remains is a sort of breathless curiosity. This was the case with the general and Siegburg; they watched the sword-play attentively, but almost calmly. Sempaly was the first to attack, and was extraordinarily nimble. Sterzl stood strictly on the defensive. He fenced in the German fashion, giving force to his lunge with the whole weight of his body; and this, with his skill and care, gave him a marked advantage over his lighter adversary. The sense of superior strength seemed at first to hinder his freedom; in fact, the contest, from a mere technical point of view, was remarkably interesting. Sempaly displayed a marvellous and--as Crespigny had said--quite irresponsible suppleness, which had no effect against Sterzl's imperturbable coolness. It was evident that he hoped to weary out his antagonist and then to end the duel by wounding him slightly. He had pricked Sempaly just under the arm, but Sempaly would not be satisfied; it was nothing he said, and after a short pause they began again.
Sempaly was beginning to look pale and exhausted, his feints were short, straight, and violent; Sterzl, on the contrary, looked fresher. Like every accomplished swordsman, in the course of a long fight he had warmed to his work and was fighting as he would have done with the foils, without duly calculating the strength of his play; things looked ill for Sempaly.
Suddenly, through the silence, a song was heard in the distance, in a boy's thin piping soprano:
"Bright May--the sweetest month of Spring;
The trees and fields with flowers are strown--"
It sent a thrill through Sterzl's veins, reminding him of the evening when Zinka had sung those words to Sempaly. The romantic element that was so strong in him surged to his brain; he lost his head; fearing to wound Sempaly mortally, he forgot to cover himself and for a second he suddenly stood as awkward and exposed as though he had never had a sword in his hand.
The seconds rushed forward--too late.
With the scarcely audible sound that the sharp steel makes as it pierces the flesh, Sempaly's sword ran into his adversary's side. Sterzl's flannel shirt was dyed with blood--his eyes glazed--he staggered forward a step or two--then he fell senseless. The duel was over.
A quarter of an hour later and the wound had been bound up as best it might, and in the closed landau, which they had made as comfortable as they could by arranging the cushions so as to form a couch--the general supporting the groaning man's head on his arm, and opposite to him the surgeon--they were driving homewards' slowly--slowly.
Dusk had fallen on the Campagna, from time to time the general looked out anxiously to see how far they were still from Rome. The road was emptier and more deserted every minute; a cart rattled past them full of peasants, shouting and singing at the top of their voices; then they met a few white-robed monks, wending their way with flaring torches to some church; and then the road was perfectly empty. The cypresses stood up tall and black against the dull-hued sky and the wide plain was one stretch of grey.
At last the arch of Constantine bends over them for a minute and the horses hoofs clatter on the stones--slowly--slowly.... The lamps of Rome twinkle in the distance--they have reached the Corso, at this hour almost empty of vehicles but crowded with idlers, and the cafés are brilliantly lighted up. The slowly-moving landau excites attention, the gapers crowd into knots, and stare and whisper. At last they reach the palazetto, turn into the court-yard and get out. The porter comes out of his den, his dog at his heels barking loudly.
"Hush, silence!" says the general--the servants come rushing down, the women begin to sob and cry, and again the general says:
"Hush, hush!" as if it were worth while to keep Zinka in ignorance for a minute more or less.
With some difficulty the heavy man is lifted out and carried up-stairs--the heavy shuffling steps sound loud in the silence. Suddenly they hear Zinka's voice loud in terror, then the baroness's in harsh reproof--a door is flung open and Zinka rushes out to meet them--a half-smothered cry of anguish breaks from her very heart--the cry with which we wake from a hideous dream.
They carried him into his room, and while they carefully settled him in bed the servant announced Dr. E----, the famous German physician of whom mention has already been made. Sempaly, who had driven back at full speed and had reached Rome more than an hour sooner than the general with the wounded man, had sent him at once. Dr. E---- examined the patient with the greatest care, adjusted the bandage with admirable skill, wrote a prescription, and ordered the application of ice. He gave a sympathetic hand to each of the ladies, who were standing anxiously at the door as he left the room, and reassured them with an encouraging smile; promising them, with that kindly hopefulness to which he owed half his fashionable practice, that the wounded man would pass a quiet night.
But when he was face to face with the general, who escorted him down stairs, the smile vanished.
"The wound is dangerous?" asked the old man with a trembling heart. The surgeon shook his head.
"Are you a relation?" he asked.
"No, but a very old friend."
"It is mortal," said Dr. E---- "I maybe mistaken--of course, I may be wrong ... nature sometimes works miracles and the patient has a splendid physique. What fine limbs! I have rarely seen so powerful a man--but so far as human science can foresee ..." and he left the death-warrant unspoken. "It is always a comfort to the survivors to know that all that can be done has been done; I will come early to-morrow morning to enquire. Send the prescription to the French chemist's--it is the best. Good-night." And he got into the carriage that was waiting for him.
The general gave the prescription to the porter, who, with the readiness and simplicity that are so characteristic of the Italians, rushed off at once without his hat. As if there were really any hurry!...
The old soldier, composing himself by an effort, returned to the bedroom. Zinka was standing very humbly at the foot of the bed, pale and tearless, but trembling from head to foot. The baroness was pacing the room and sobbing violently, wringing her hands and pushing her hair back from her temples. Of course she flew at the general with questions as to the surgeon's prognosis. His evasive answers were enough to fill her with unreasonable hope and to revive the worldly instincts which her terrors had for a moment cast into the background.
"Yes, yes, he will pass a quiet night," she whimpered; "he will get well again--it would have been too bad with such a brilliant career before him;--but this is an end to Constantinople ..."
Zinka, on the contrary, had turned still paler at the general's report but she said nothing.
That there had been a duel she and her mother had of course understood. What did she infer from that? What did she think--what did she feel? She herself never rightly knew; in her soul all was dark--in her heart all was cold. Her whole being was concentrated in horror.
After much and urgent persuasion the general succeeded in inducing the baroness to leave the room and to lie down for a time, "to spare herself for her son's sake."
She had hardly closed the door when the servant came quietly in and said that Count Truyn had come. Zinka looked up.
"Shall I let him come in?" asked the general. Zinka nodded.
Siegburg had told him, and though it was now eleven Truyn had hurried off to the palazetto. He came into the room without speaking and straight up to Zinka. The simple feeling with which he took her hands in both his, the deep and tender sorrow at being unable to help or to reassure her that spoke in his eyes comforted and warmed her heart; the frozen horror that had held her in its clasp seemed to thaw; tears started to her eyes, a tremulous sob died on her lips; then, controlling herself with great difficulty, she murmured intelligibly: "There is no hope--no hope!"
His mother's loud lamentations had not roused the wounded man but the first sound from Zinka recalled him to consciousness; he began to move uneasily and opened his sunken eyes. The whites shone dimly, like polished silver, as he fixed them on his sister's face; from thence they wandered to a blood-stained handkerchief that had been forgotten, and then to the general. Slowly and painfully he seemed to comprehend the situation. He struggled for breath, with an impatient movement of his hands and shoulders, and then shivered as with a spasm. He was conscious now, and sighed deeply.
The first thing that occurred to him was his official duty:
"Have you sent word to the ambassador?" he asked the general almost angrily.
"No, not yet."
"Then make haste, pray; they must telegraph to Vienna."
"Yes, yes," said Von Klinger soothingly, "I will see to it at once. Would you be good enough to stay till I return?" he added to Truyn and he hurried away.
For a few minutes not a word was spoken, then Sterzl began:
"Do you know how it all happened, Count?" Truyn bowed. "And you, Zini?" asked Cecil, looking sadly at the girl's white face. "I know that you are suffering--that is all I want to know," she replied.
"Oh! Zini...." Sterzl struggled for breath and held out his hand to Zinka, then he went on in a hoarse and hardly audible voice: "Zini ... Butterfly ... it was all my doing ... I have spoilt your life ... I did it...."
She tried to stop him: "You must not excite yourself," she said, leaning over him tenderly; "forget all that till you are better--I know that you have always loved me and that you would have fetched the stars from heaven for me if you could have reached them."
He shuddered convulsively: "No, Zini, no ... you might have had the stars," he said in a panting staccato; "the finest stars. Sempaly was not to blame ... only I ... the prince had agreed ... but I ... I forgot myself ... and I spoilt it all ... oh, a drink of water, Zini, please!..."
She gave him the water and he drank it greedily; but when she gently tried to stop his mouth with her hand he pushed it away, and went on eagerly, though with a fast failing voice: "No ... I must tell you ... it is a weight upon my soul. There, in my desk ... Count ... in the little pocket on the left ... there is a letter for Zinka.--Give it her...."
Truyn did his bidding. The letter was sealed and addressed to Zinka in Cecil's fine firm hand. She opened it; it contained the note that Sempaly had written before starting for Frascati and Sterzl had added a few words of explanation in case it should not fall into Zinka's hands till after his death.
She read it all while the dying man anxiously watched her face, but her expression did not alter by a shade. Sempaly's words glided over her heart without touching it; even when she had read both notes she did not speak. Two red flames burnt in her pale cheeks.
"I got ... the note ... too late," said Sterzl sadly, "the general ... can tell you how ... how it all happened ... I lost my head ... but he ... he is safe, so you must forgive me ... and do ... act ... as if I had never existed ... then ... I shall rest ... in peace ... and be happy in ... my grave ... if I know ... that you are ... happy."
Still she did not speak; her eyes were strangely overcast; but it was not with grief for her lost happiness. Suddenly she tore the note across and dropped the pieces on the floor.
"If he had written ten letters," she cried, "it would have made no difference now; do not let that worry you, Cecil--it is all at an end. Even if there were no gulf between us I could never be his wife! I have ceased to love him.--How mean he is in my eyes--compared with you!"
And so the brother and sister were at one again; the discord was resolved.
For more than four and twenty hours Cecil wrestled with death and Zinka never left his side. The certainty of their mutual and complete devotion was a melancholy consolation in the midst of this cruel parting. The pain he suffered was agonizing; particularly during the night and the early morning; but he bore it with superb fortitude and it was only by the nervous clenching of his hands and the involuntary distortion of his features that he betrayed his suffering. He hardly for a moment slept; he refused the opiate sent by the surgeon; he wished to "keep his head" as long as possible.
When Zinka--with a thousand tender circumlocutions--suggested to him that he should receive the last sacraments of the Church he agreed. "If it will be any comfort to you, Butterfly," he sighed; and he received the priest with reverent composure.
In the afternoon he was easier--Zinka began to hope.
"You are better," she whispered imploringly, "you are better, are you not?"
"I am in less pain," he said, and then she began making plans for the future--he smiled sadly.
No man could die with a better grace, and yet it was hard to die.
The catastrophe had roused universal sympathy. The terrible news had spread like wildfire through the city and a sort of panic fell on the rank and fashion of Rome. No one, that day, who had ever spoken a spiteful or a flippant word against Sterzl or his sister, failed to feel a prick of remorse. Every one came or sent to the palazetto to enquire for them. Now and again the baroness would come in triumphantly, in her hand a particularly distinguished visiting-card with its corner turned down, and rustle up to the bedside: "Ilsenbergh came himself to the door to ask after you!"
Late in the day he fell into an uneasy sleep; Zinka and the general did not quit the room. The window was open but the air that blew in through the Venetian blinds was damp and sultry. The street was strewn with straw; the roll of the carriages in the Corso came, dulled by distance, up to the chamber of death. Then twilight fell and the rumbling echoes were still. Presently, the slow irregular tramp of a crowd broke the silence, with the accompaniment of a solemn but dismal chant Zinka sprang up to close the window; but she was not quick enough. The sleeper had opened his weary eyes and was listening--: "A funeral!" he muttered.
After this he could not rest, and his sufferings began once more. He tossed on his pillow, talked of his will, begging the general to make a note of certain trifling alterations; and when Zinka entreated him not to torment himself but to think of that by-and-bye, he shook his head, and murmured in a voice that was hoarse and tremulous with pain: "No, I am in a hurry ... time presses ... railway fever ... railway fever ..."
When Zinka, unable to control herself, was leaving the room to hide her tears, he desired her to remain:
"Only stop by me ... do not leave me, Zini," he said. "Cry if it is a relief to you ... but stay here ... poor little Butterfly!... yes, you will miss me...."
Once only did he lose his self-command. It was late in the evening. He had begged them to send to the embassy for an English newspaper which would give some information as to a certain political matter in which he was particularly interested; the ambassador himself brought it to his bedside.
"How are you?... how are you now?" he asked with sincere emotion ... "You were quite right, Sterzl. Ignatiev has done exactly as you said; you have a wonderful power of divination ... I shall miss you desperately when you go to Constantinople...." and his excellency fairly broke down.
There was a painful pause. "I am going further than Constantinople...." Sterzl murmured at length. "I should like to know who will get my place...." His voice failed him and he groaned as he hid his face in the pillow.
The end came at midnight. Dr. E---- had warned the general that it would be terrible; but it was in vain that they tried to persuade Zinka to leave the room. The whole night through she knelt by the dying man's bed in her tumbled white dressing-gown--praying.
At about five in the morning his moaning ceased. Was all over? No, he spoke again; a strange, far-away look, peculiar to the dying, came into his eyes. "Do not cry, little one--it will all come right...." and then he felt about with his hands as if he were seeking for something--for some idea that had escaped him. He gazed at his sister. "Go to bed, Zini--I am better ... sleepy ... Constanti...." He turned his head to the wall and breathed deeply. He had started on his journey.
The general closed his eyes and drew Zinka away. Outside in the corridor stood a crushed and miserable man--it was Sempaly. Pale, wretched, and restless, he had stolen into the palazetto, and as he stood aside his hands trembled, his eyes were haggard. She did not shrink from him as she went by--she did not see him!
A glorious morning shone on the little garden-court. In a darkly-shady corner a swarm of blue butterflies were fluttering over the grass like atoms fallen from the sky. It was the corner in which the Amazon stood.