"But is not that more or less the way with all children?" replied Oswald. "Is it not their privilege to be loved without being specially grateful for it? And then: what is a love which counts upon a reward? Is it not here also true, that he who asks for a reward has already his reward?"
"I hope you may never experience that in your own case," said the baron, with much feeling. "And may others never learn it through your agency! You would not say so if you knew what hopeless love is; what it means to carry about in you the feeling that your love, true, warm love, is returned with indifference and coldness! No, no! A heart that loves us is a treasure which we must not despise, and if we owned every heart in the world; to have pained a heart that loves us is a recollection which sears our conscience, and which no new love can ever extinguish."
"And have you had such experience?"
"Unfortunately I have! I have formed and broken many ties of love, without feeling any remorse about it. I knew too well that I would not break the dear hearts! Only once--I was quite young yet, and that must be my excuse, if there can be one--only once I became guilty of the crime of rewarding a woman, who I knew loved me truly and faithfully, with vile ingratitude. The story would be ever present to my mind, even if the Brown Countess had not recalled it to me in a strange way. Did I not tell you how I met, quite accidentally, many years ago and far away in Hungary, a gypsy girl----"
"Yes," said Oswald, "I recollect your story very well. Baron Cloten's arrival interrupted you. I forgot afterwards to ask you for the continuation. Was it not this way? You were on a visit to a friend whom you had known in Vienna. You found the girl in a gypsy camp, as you were roaming through the woods far from the house. The band had gone away and left her behind. To see her and to love her was one. You spent several days with her in romantic bliss. The story ended with the following tableau: A gypsy encampment in the forest--sunset--under the overhanging shelter of a broad, branching beech-tree, a loving pair on a soft moss carpet----"
"You have a good memory," said the baron, "and you have reproduced my state of mind at that time very faithfully. I was sitting then with the Zingarella--Xenobia was her sweet name--in the manner mentioned by you. I was singing the old song of love which would never end, and the poor little bird trusted the false old melody, and came closer and closer to my heart. Suddenly horses' tramp was heard in the silent woods, and laughing and talking of a merry cavalcade. I had hardly time to push the little one rudely from my lap and to rise, when the troop came galloping from under the tall trees into the clearing. They were my friends: the young Count Cryvanny, with his sisters, and several ladies and gentlemen from the neighborhood. You may imagine the scene that followed--I was at once surrounded and overwhelmed with questions. Where had I been? How did I get there?--I thought you had been torn by wolves! said one--or you had killed yourself from unrequited love! cried another.--I have the key to the secret! Love is the cause, but by no means unrequited love.--Look there! and he pointed with the handle of his riding-whip at my poor Xenobia, who had crept behind the trunk of the tree. Universal laughter rewarded the witty man. One face only looked black. It was the youngest and prettiest of the three sisters, whom I had courted last, and who, I believe, honored me with her favor in her way--which, to be sure, did not amount to much. I was suddenly very much ashamed of my poor Xenobia, and had only one wish, to get out of this embarrassment without offending the proud Georgiana. I pretended to be indignant; I said I had wandered about in the woods, and that I had but just reached the encampment. 'But where does the girl get the gold chain from around her neck, which we admired only the other day, when you wore it?' asked Georgiana.--'She must have stolen it from me,' I said, 'while I slept here, tired by my wanderings.'--Then take it back.--I could have murdered Georgiana, but I had bound myself by my bold falsehood. I could not recall it. Xenobia anticipated me.--Here, sir! she said; take what I have stolen! and she handed me the chain. I shall never in my life forget the trembling hand, the face disfigured by pain and indignation. Let us get back home! cried Count Cryvanny, there is a storm coming up!--I took the horse of one of the servants, and off we went through the darkening forest. I dared not look back at Xenobia. Georgiana, by whose side I was riding, would never have forgiven me. I had fully reconquered her favor, but at what cost? On the evening of the following day--I could not get away sooner I hastened to the forest to make amends for my wrong, but I found, after a long search, only the place of the encampment. Xenobia was gone. The band had no sooner found their retreat discovered than they had broken up their tents and moved, no one knew where? I have never seen a trace again of Xenobia."
The baron was silent, and puffed the smoke of his cigar in mighty clouds high into the air.
"You see," he began again, after a long pause, "I am pious enough, or superstitious enough, if you prefer it, to believe that this wicked deed of mine has brought upon me a curse which no repentance can remove. That curse is fulfilled in my aimless life. From that day it has been my fate to sow love and to reap indifference. And now you will also understand what Czika is to me--an angel in the highest sense of the word, a sweet messenger from on high, who sings Peace! Peace! to my sick heart. The child's face, you know, has been for years before my mind's eye, and I have told you how I thought twice to be near the realization of my dreams. Here is the red rose Xenobia once more, but in the morning dew of sweetest innocence. The red rose has no doubt long since faded and withered amid the storms of life, and even if I had kept it at that time--what would the world, the cold, impudent, slandering world have said of the romantic love of a baron and a zingarella! I was too young then, and could not have defended my poor wife against the world: now I am a man, and have to protect a child only, a foundling. I shall give the gypsy whatever she may ask, and my warmest, sincerest thanks into the bargain. I hope she has not forgotten the appointment--stop, Charles!--We must get out here and walk through the woods. I know the way from of old. This is the hour appointed by the Brown Countess. We are just in time."
"Had we not better leave the child here," said Oswald.
"Why?" inquired the baron, who had left the carriage.