'My own Fatherland, my brave Germany on!
We'll sing them a terrible strain.
For what ages ago, their vile policy won—
Of Strasburg, of Metz, and Lorraine.
They shall hand it all back to the uttermost mite,
Since for life or for death they compel us to fight.
To shout, "To the Rhine, to the Rhine, and advance!
All Germany onward, and march into France!"'
CHAPTER III.
THE DREADED MEETING.
A week had passed away at Frankenburg, and the subject of the young Count's return—that event so dreaded by poor Herminia, from motives of delicacy, perhaps—had not been resumed, till the evening which saw him and his comrade driving through the beautiful scenery just referred to.
Dinner had been delayed, as the Count had telegraphed from the Pariser Hof that he was coming, and both the young ladies had made most careful toilettes, and perhaps sorely tried the temper of their attendants—Herminia, to please her watchful and somewhat suspicious aunt; Ernestine to please herself, and perhaps with a secret desire to please her brother's boasted friend, who, being an Englishman, would, she feared, be rather critical and fastidious.
And still further to achieve the laudable end of subduing him, she was now at her piano, practising sundry vapid fashionable songs which she had learned in England, just as our English girls strum German and Italian, learned, perhaps, at second hand from some poor needy governess. Most warmly had Heinrich written to her again and again about his English comrade, who had once actually fought a duel for him at Altona, when he was too ill to fight for himself, so Ernestine was all anxiety to know, receive, and thank him; for she doted on Heinrich, her only brother, as a loving, tender, and devoted sister alone can dote.
During all the past week, Herminia had but one thought, especially when riding, driving, or walking abroad. Her lover had confidently promised to see her again, and to follow her to Frankenburg; but she had seen nothing of him, and no letter or note, however brief, had reached her.
Why was this? She could find no answer in her heart, and doubt and anxiety cost her many tears in secret.
There had been great bustle and anticipation all day long in the somewhat secluded mansion in consequence of the expected arrival of the young Herr Graf and his friend. The family were to be 'not at home' to any visitors. Already Grunthal, Rheinburg, and sundry other Grafs had called in their ramshackle old-fashioned coaches and droschkies, covered with coats-of-arms exhibiting the usual German infinity of quarterings; and certain officials of Aix-la-Chapelle, with their wives, who, like other wives all over Germany, insisted upon taking the titles of their husbands' occupation, had been day after day leaving their cards, having heard that 'the Belles of Frankenburg had returned;' but now all were to be denied, and this afternoon was to be devoted to the only son of the house.
The Countess, who, though a modern lady of fashion, requiring her novels, cushions, Spitz lap-dog in a basket, and the Kladderadatch to get through the day, was nevertheless, on the other hand, as thrifty a German housewife as any of the old school, had bustled about overseeing the culinary preparations, while her husband, Count Ulrich, who was passionately addicted to the pleasures of the chase, spent only half that day in the woods, and was now, with a huge pipe (having a china bowl and tassel) in his mouth, watching, like a sentinel, from a terrace before the drawing-room windows, the road that wound away towards Aix-la-Chapelle.