ATTEMPTS TO RESCUE
The countess remained absent a long time, while the duke sat at the window of the boudoir gazing out into the frosty winter morning, but without seeing what was passing outside. Before him lay a shattered happiness, a marred destiny. The happiness was his, the destiny hers. "There is surely nothing weaker than a woman--even the strongest!" he thought, shaking his head mournfully. Ought we not to punish this personator of Christ, who used his mask to break into the citadel of our circle and steal what did not belong to him? Pshaw, how could the poor fellow help it if an eccentric woman out of ennui--ah, no, we should not think of it! But--what is to be done now? Shall I sacrifice this superb creature to an insipid prejudice, because she sacrificed herself and everything else to a childish delusion? Where is the man pure enough to condemn you because when you give, you give wholly, royally, and in your proud self-forgetfulness fling what others would outweigh with kingly crowns into the lap of a beggar who can offer you nothing in exchange, not even appreciation of your value--which he is too uncultured to perceive.
"Alas! such a woman--to be thrown away on such a man! And should I not save her? Should I weakly desert her--I, the only person who can forgive because I am the only one who understands her?--No! It would be against all the logic of destiny and reason, were I to suffer such a life to be wrecked by this religious humbug. What is the use of my cool brain, if I lose my composure now? Allons donc! I will bid defiance to fate and to every prejudice, clasp her in my arms, and destroy the divine farce!"
Such was the train of the duke's thoughts. But his pale face and joyless expression betrayed what he would not acknowledge to himself: that his happiness was shattered. He gathered up the fragments and tried to join them together--but with the secret grief with which we bear home some loved one who could not be witheld from a dangerous path, knowing that, though the broken limbs may be healed, he can never regain his former strength.
"So grave, Duke?" asked a voice which sent the blood to his heart. The countess had entered--her step unheard on the soft carpet.
He started up: "Madeleine--my poor Madeleine! I was thinking of you and your fate!"
"I have saddened you!" she said, clasping her hands penitently.
"Oh, no!" he drew the little hands down to his lips, and with a sorrowful smile kissed them.
"My cheerfulness can bear some strain--but the malapert must be permitted to be silent sometimes when there are serious matters to be considered."
"You are too noble to let me feel that you are suffering. Yet I see it--you would not be the man you are if you did not suffer to-day."
The duke bit his lips, it seemed as if he were struggling to repress a tear: "Pshaw--we won't be sentimental! You have wept enough to-day! The world must not see tear-stains on your face. Give me a cup of coffee--I do not belong to the chosen few whom a mortal emotion raises far above all the needs of their mortal husk."
The countess rang for breakfast.
The servant brought the dishes ordered into the boudoir, as the dining-room was not yet thoroughly heated. In the chimney-corner beside the blazing fire the coffee was already steaming in a silver urn over an alcohol lamp, filling the cosy room with its aroma and musical humming.
"How pleasant this is!" said the duke, throwing himself into an armchair beside the grave mistress of the house.
"I will pour it myself," she said to the servant who instantly withdrew. The countess was now simply dressed in black, without an ornament of any kind, and with her hair confined in a plain knot.
"What a contrast!" the duke remarked, smiling--"you alone are capable of such metamorphoses. Half an hour ago in a court costume, glittering with diamonds, an aching heart, and hands half frozen from being clasped in prayer in the chilled church, now a demure little housewife, peacefully watching the coffee steam in a cosy little room, waiting intently for the moment when the water will boil, as if there were no task in the whole world more important than that of making a good decoction."
A faint smile glided over the countess' face--she had nearly allowed the important moment to pass. Now she poured out the coffee, extinguished the spirit lamp, and handed her companion a cup of the steaming beverage.
"A thousand thanks! Ah, that's enough to brighten the most downcast mood! What comfort! Now let us enjoy an hour of innocent, genuine plebeian happiness. Ah--how fortunate the people are who live so every day. I should be the very man to enjoy such bliss!" His glance wandered swiftly to the countess' empty cup. "Aha! I thought so! A great sorrow must of course be observed by mortifying the body, in order to be sure to succumb to it. Well, then the guest must do the honors of the hostess! There, now ma chère Madeleine will drink this, and dip this buscuit into it! One can accomplish that, even without an appetite. Who would wish to make heart and stomach identical!"
The countess, spite of her protestations, was forced to obey. She saw that the duke had asked for breakfast only to compel her to eat.
"There. You see that it can be done. I enjoy with a touch of emotion this coffee which your dear hands have prepared. If you would do the same with the cup I poured out what a sentimental breakfast it would be!" A ray of the old cheerfulness sparkled in the duke's eyes.
"Ah, I knew that with you alone I should find peace and cheer!" said the countess, brightening.
"So much the better." The duke lighted a cigarette and leaned comfortably back in his chair.
The countess ordered the coffee equipage to be removed and then sat down opposite to him with her hands clasped in her lap.
"The main point now, my dear Madeleine, if I may be allowed to speak of these things to you, is to release you from the cause of all the trouble--I need not name him. Of course I do not know how easy or how difficult this may be, because I am ignorant how far you are involved in this relation and unfortunately lack the long locks of the Christ, which would enable me successfully to play the part of the 'Good Shepherd,' who freed the imprisoned lamb from the thicket."
"As if it depended on that!" said the countess.
"Not at all? Oh, women, women! What will not a few raven locks do? The destiny of your lives turns upon just such trifles. Imagine that Ammergau Christus with close-cropped hair and a bristling red beard! Would that mask have suited the illusion to which you sacrificed yourself? Hardly!"
The countess made no reply, silenced by the pitiless truth, but at last she thought she must defend herself. "And the religious impression, the elevation, the enthusiasm--the revelations of the Passion Play, do you count these nothing?"
"Certainly not! I felt them myself, but, believe me, you would not have transferred them to the person, if the representative of Christ had worn a wig, and the next day had appeared before you with stiff, closely-cropped red hair."
The countess made a gesture of aversion.
"There, now you see the realist again. Yet, say what you will, a few locks of raven hair formed the net in which the haughty, clever Countess Wildenau was prisoned!"
"You may be right, the greatest picture consists of details, and may be spoiled by a single one. I will confess it--Yes! The harmony of the whole person, down to the most trifling detail, with the Christ tradition, enthralled me, and had the locks been wanting, the impression would not have been complete. But, however I may have been deceived in the image, I cannot let myself and him sink so low in your opinion as to permit you to believe that it was nothing save an ensnaring outward semblance which sealed my fate! Had not his spiritual nature completed the illusion--matters would never have gone so far."
"Yes, yes, I can imagine how it happened. You prompted the part, and he had skill enough to play to the prompter, as it is called in the parlance of the stage."
"'Skill' is not the right word, he was influenced precisely as I was."
"Ah! He probably would not have been so foolish as to refuse such a chance. A wealthy, beautiful woman--like you--"
"No, no, do not speak of him in that way. I cannot let that accusation rest upon him. He is not base! He is uncultured, has the narrow-minded views of a peasant, is sensitive and capricious, an unfortunate temperament, with which it is impossible to live happily--but I know no one in the world, to whom any ignoble thought is more alien."
The prince gazed at her admiringly. Tears were sparkling in her eyes. "I don't deny that I am bitterly disappointed in him--but though I love him no longer, I must not allow him to be insulted. He loved me and sacrificed his poor life for mine--that the compensation did not outweigh the price was no fault of his, and I ought not to make him responsible for it."
The duke became very thoughtful. The countess was silent, she had clasped her hands on her knee, and was gazing, deeply moved, into vacancy.
"You are a noble woman, Madeleine!" he said in a low tone. "I always ranked you high, but never higher than at this moment! I will never again wound your feelings. But however worthy of esteem Freyer may be, deeply as I pity the unfortunate man--you are my first consideration--and you cannot, must not continue in this relation. Throughout the whole system of the universe the lower existence must yield to the higher. You are the higher--therefore Freyer must be sacrificed! You are a philosopher--accept the results of your view of the world, be strong and resolve to do what is inevitable quickly. You yourself say that you no longer love him--whether you have ever done so, I will not venture to decide! If he is really what you describe him to be, he must feel this and--I believe, that he, too, is not to be envied. What kind of respite is this which you are granting the hapless man under the sword of the executioner. Pardon me, but I should term it torture. You feign, from motives of compassion, feelings you no longer have, and he feels the deception. So he is continually vibrating between the two extremes of fear and hope--a prey to the most torturing doubts. So you permit the victim whom you wish to kill to live, in order to destroy him slowly. You pity him--and for pity are cruel."
The countess cast a startled glance at him. "You are terribly truthful."
"I must say that I am sorry for that man," the duke went on in his usual manner. "I think it is your duty to end this state of things. If he has a good, mentally sound character, he will conquer the blow and shape his life anew. But such a condition of uncertainty would unnerve the strongest nature. This cat and mouse sport is unworthy of you! You tried it with me ten years ago in a less painful way--I, knowing women, was equal to the game, so no harm was done, and I could well allow you the graceful little pastime. It is different with Freyer. A man of his stamp, who stakes his whole life upon a single feeling, takes the matter more tragically, and the catastrophe was inevitable. But must romance be carried to tragedy? See, my dear friend, that it is confined within its proper limits. Besides, you have already paid for it dearly enough--it has left an indelible impress upon your soul--borne a fruit which matured in suffering and you have buried with anguish because destiny itself, though with a stern hand, tried to efface the consequences of your error. Heed this portent, for your sake and his own! I speak in his behalf also. My aim is not only to win you, but to see the woman whom I have won worthy of herself and the high opinion I cherish of her."
The countess' features betrayed the most intense emotion. What should she do? Should she tell this noble man all--confess that she was married. The hour that he discovered it, he would desert her. Must she lose him, her last support and consolation? No, she dared not. The drowning woman clung to him; she knew not what was to come of it--she only knew that she would be lost without him--and kept silence.
"Where is he? In the old hunting-box of which your cousin Wildenau spoke?" asked the duke after a long pause.
"Yes."
"As what?"
"As steward."
"Steward? H'm!"
The duke shook his head. "What a relation; you made the man you loved your servant, and believed that you could love him still? How little you knew yourself! Had you seen him on the mountains battling with wind and storm as a wood-cutter, a shepherd, but free, you might have continued to love him. But as 'the steward' at whom the servants look with one eye as their equal, with the other as their mistress' favorite--never! You placed him in a situation where he could not help despising himself--how could you respect him? But a woman like you no longer loves where she can no longer esteem!" He was silent a moment, then with sudden determination exclaimed: "Do you understand what I say now? Not free yourself from him--but free him from himself! You have done the same thing as the giantess who carried the farmer and his plough home in her apron. Do you understand what a deep meaning underlies Chamisso's comical tale? The words with which the old giant ordered her to take her prize back to the spot where she found it, say everything: 'The peasant is no plaything.' Only in the sphere where a man naturally belongs is he of value, but this renders him too good for a toy. You have transplanted Freyer to a sphere in which he ceased to have any value to you and are now making him play a part there which I would not impose on my worst enemy."
"Yes, you are right."
"Finally we owe it to those who were once dear to us, not to make them ridiculous! Or do you believe that Freyer, if he had the choice, would not have pride enough to prefer the most cruel truth to a compassionate lie?"
"Certainly."
"And still more. We owe it to the law of truthfulness, under which we stand as moral beings, not to continue deliberately a deception which was perhaps unconsciously begun. When self-respect is lost--all is lost."
The duke rose: "It is time for me to go. Consider my advice, I can say nothing more in your interest and his."
"But what shall I do--how am I to find a gentle way--oh! Heaven, I don't know how to help myself."
"Do nothing at present, everything is still too fresh to venture upon any positive act--the wounds would bleed, and what ought to be severed would only grow together the more firmly. Go away for a time. You are out of favor with the queen. What is more natural than to go on a journey and sulk. To the so-called steward also, this must at present serve for a pretext to avoid a tragical parting scene."
"Go now! Now!--leave--you?" she whispered, blushing as she spoke.
"Madeleine," he said gently, drawing her hand to his breast. "How am I to interpret this blush? Is it the sign of a sweeter feeling, or embarrassment because circumstances have led you to say something which I might interpret differently from your intention?"
She bent her head, blushing still more deeply.
"Perhaps you do not know yourself--I will not torture you with questions, which your agitated heart cannot answer now. But if anything really does bind you to me, then--I would suggest your joining my father at Cannes. If even the faintest feeling of affection for me is stirring within you, you will understand that we could never be nearer to each other than while you were learning to be my old father's daughter! Will you?"
"Yes!" she whispered with rising tears, for ever more beautiful, ever purer rose before her a happiness which she had forfeited, of which she would no longer be worthy, even could she grasp it.
The duke, usually so sharp-sighted, could not guess the source of these tears; for the first time he was deceived and interpreted favorably an emotion aroused by the despairing perception that all was vain.
He gazed down at her with a ray of love shining in his clear blue eyes, and pressed a kiss on her drooping brow. Then raising his hand, he pointed upward. "Only have courage, and hold your head high. All will yet be well. Adieu!"
He moved away as proudly, calmly and firmly as if success was assured; he did not suspect that he was leaving a lost cause.