‘Mademoiselle is a miracle of forethought and candour too,’ said I. ‘Adieu! adieu for ever!’ The last word I uttered in a low whisper.
‘Adieu, Maurice,’ said she, equally low, and then turned away towards the window.
From that moment until the instant when, out of breath and exhausted, I halted for a few seconds on the crag below the fortress, I knew nothing; my brain was in a whirl of mad, conflicting thought. Every passion was working within me, and rage, jealousy, love, and revenge were alternately swaying and controlling me. Then, however, as I looked down for the last time on the village and the cottage beside the river, my heart softened, and I burst into a torrent of tears. There, said I, as I arose to resume my way, there! one illusion is dissipated; let me take care that life never shall renew the affliction! Henceforth I will be a soldier, and only a soldier.
CHAPTER XL. THE CHATEAU OF ETTENHEIM
I now come to an incident in my life, which, however briefly I may speak, has left the deepest impression on my memory. I have told the reader how I left Kuffstein fully satisfied that the Count de Marsanne was Laura’s lover, and that in keeping my promise to see and speak with him, I was about to furnish an instance of self-denial and fidelity that nothing in ancient or modern days could compete with.
The letter was addressed, ‘The Count Louis de Marsanne, Château d’Ettenheim, à Baden,’ and thither I accordingly repaired, travelling over the Arlberg to Bregenz, and across the Lake of Constance to Freyburg; my passport containing a very few words in cipher, which always sufficed to afford me free transit and every attention from the authorities. I had left the southern Tyrol in the outburst of a glorious spring, but as I journeyed northward I found the rivers frozen, the roads encumbered with snow, and the fields untilled and dreary-looking. Like all countries which derive their charms from the elements of rural beauty, foliage and verdure, Germany offers a sad coloured picture to the traveller in winter or wintry weather.
It was thus, then, that the Grand-Duchy, so celebrated for its picturesque beauty, struck me as a scene of dreary and desolate wildness, an impression which continued to increase with every mile I travelled from the highroad.
A long unbroken flat, intersected here and there by stunted willows, traversed by a narrow earth road, lay between the Rhine and the Taunus Mountains, in the midst of which stood the village of ‘Ettenheim.’ Outside the village, about half a mile off, and on the border of a vast pine forest, stood the château.
It was originally a hunting-seat of the Dukes of Baden, but from neglect, and disuse, gradually fell into ruin, from which it was reclaimed, imperfectly enough, a year before, and now exhibited some remnants of its former taste, along with the evidences of a far less decorative spirit; the lower rooms being arranged as a stable, while the stair and entrance to the first storey opened from a roomy coach-house. Here some four or five conveyances of rude construction were gathered together, splashed and unwashed, as if from recent use; and at a small stove in a corner was seated a peasant in a blue frock, smoking as he affected to clean a bridle which he held before him.