The once smart officer of Uhlans, who had ridden on old Blucher's staff at Waterloo, on that eventful day when the 'Iron Duke' wept with joy to hear the boom of the Prussian cannon—the smart Lancer, of whom the Countess had boasted at the Grand Hotel, was somewhat obese now. He was, in fact, a very stout, bald-headed, and rather coarsely featured old Teuton, with a red ribbon (of course) at his button-hole, and a thick plain hoop on his marital finger, as all married men wear one in Germany.
He had been kept uninformed, so far as Herminia knew, of her aversion to his son, and her very decided preference for a certain obscure Herr Mansfeld, whose image was rising painfully before her, as she, too, from time to time, looked down on the distant view, to where the spires of the Dom Kirche of Aix rose darkly up amid the ruddy haze of evening.
The Countess could detect in the face and deportment of her niece that which the preoccupied or uninformed Count did not. It was but too evident that Herminia had passed a disturbed night, a restless and feverish day. Indeed, Ernestine admitted that she had heard her sighing and moaning in her sleep, and Herminia had quitted her couch that morning resolving to appeal to the chivalry, the manhood, the charity, and honour of her cousin to release her from the yoke, the thraldom his family had placed upon her, even with the loss of her fortune.
Ignorant of this resolution, the Countess took her niece's passive hand—and a lovely little hand it was—in hers, and said kindly but firmly—
'Meine liebe, I trust that when our dear Heinrich arrives, you will not exhibit any unpleasant coldness towards him.'
'Can you expect me to exhibit warmth? Is he not an utter stranger save by name? Would warmth in me be modest or becoming, aunt? Besides——' she paused, for tears choked her utterance.
'Do not be alarmed, mamma,' said Ernestine, as she looked laughingly back from her seat at the piano; 'I know our Heinrich to be so handsome and winning, that he will soon obliterate all recollection of our friend at the Grand Hotel.'
'Ernestine,' said Herminia reproachfully, while she glanced nervously at the portly figure of her uncle, who was still watching the Aix road from the lofty terrace, where the box-trees were cut into strange and fantastic shapes, like lions and egg-cups, and where some stately peacocks strutted to and fro.
Frankenburg is situated on the summit of a tall rock that towers above the line of the Antwerp railway. The actual castle is a ruined and ivy-mantled tower of unknown, but fabulous, antiquity, as it is actually averred to have been a hunting seat of Charlemagne. A more modern edifice has been engrafted on it, and this formed at the time the residence of the Count's family. It had all the usual comforts of a fashionable German household; but there was still attached to it a banqueting-hall of the seventeenth century—the pride of Count Ulrich's heart—with its black oak roof, its rows of deer skulls and antlers, with all the implements for fishing, shooting, and hunting, hung upon the walls, pell-mell with fragments of armour and weapons of every kind, from the great glaives of the middle ages to muskets and sabres gleaned up by the Count at Ligny and Waterloo.
And there, at Christmas time, a tall fir-tree from the Reichswald; covered with toys and cakes, grotesque masks, papier-maché dolls, candles and shining lights, gladdened the hearts of the little tenantry, who were cuddled and kissed up and down by the hearty old Baron acting Father Christmas, with a mighty white beard, a cowl, and long wand; while Ernestine and Herminia glided about like good fairies, dispensing viands and wine to the sturdy Teutons and their blooming fraus, when the trees of the Reichswald were leafless and bare, and the branches glittered like silver and crystal in the frostwork, and the first snowdrops of the season were peeping up in sheltered spots, and the brown stacks of the last harvest were mantled with snow.