Albano took his journey, happy through remembrance, still happier through hope. He had now courage to imagine to himself the day when Linda, a queen, should entwine with the shining crown of her spirit the soft bridal-wreath,—when this sun should rise as a Luna,—when a father, whom his own father loved, should interrupt the high festival by one of the highest,—and when for once two beings might say to each other: Now we love each other forever. So blest, and with an infinite love and sunny-warm soul, he arrived at the Prince's garden.
He always, in his passionate punctuality, came much too early. No one was yet there but two—departing ones, Roquairol and the Princess. These two were now so often and so openly seen together, that the appearing seemed intentional. Roquairol came courteously to meet him and reminded him of the received billet. "This is the theatre, dear friend," said he, "where I next play; most of the preparations I have already made, particularly to-day. My excellent Princess has granted me this spot." "You are surely coming, too," said that lady in a friendly manner to Albano. "I have already promised him as much," said Albano, who felt two ice-cellars blowing upon him in the midst of his spring. Fraülein von Haltermann alone showed him great and decided scorn. "Shall we go first to my sister's?" asked Roquairol of the Princess, as he escorted her away. Albano did not understand that. The Princess nodded. They took leave of him. Fraülein von Haltermann seemed to forget him. They flew away, stopped up on a hill encircled by the whole blooming landscape, near a little flower-garden, and then rolled along down.
The Charles's-wain with the beloved maidens came now into the French princely garden. Ardently did Albano and Linda press each other to their hearts, which to-day,—just as if those hearts had been a second time created and adorned for each other by destiny,—they would once more, with new hopes and worlds, give each other in exchange! All was so resplendent around them, all new, rare, tranquil; the whole world a garden full of high, fluttering fountains, which, drunk with splendor, flung their rainbows through each other in the sun. Julienne drew him aside to tell him of Linda's fair resolve; but he anticipated her with the intelligence of his. She strengthened him with her intelligence, delighted at the singular playing together of the wheels of fortune.
When Albano and the bride were together again, they felt a new warmth of heart; not such as comes from a dull, consuming coal, which at last crumbles into blackness, but that of a higher sun, which out of loud flames makes peaceful rays, and which surrounds men with a warm, mild spring day. Albano neither delayed nor introduced the matter, but gave her the note of her father, and said during the reading, with trembling voice, "Thy father begs with me and for me." Linda's tears gushed,—the youth trembled,—Julienne cried: "Linda, see how he loves thee!" Albano took her to his heart,—Linda stammered, "Take, then, my dear freedom, and stay with me." "Till my last hour," said he. "And till mine, and thou goest to no war," said she, with a tenderly low voice. He pressed her confusedly and ardently to his heart. "Am I not right, thou promisest it, my dear?" she repeated.
"O thou divine one, think of something fairer now," said he. "Only yes! Albano, yes?" she continued. "All will be solved by our love," said he. "Yes? Say only yes!" She begged,—he was silent,—she was terrified. "Yes?" said she, more vehemently. "O Linda, Linda!" he stammered,—they sank out of each other's arms,—"I cannot," said he. "Human creatures, understand each other!" said Julienne. "Albano, speak thy word," said Linda, severely. "I have none," said he. Linda raised herself, offended, and said, "I, too, am proud,—I am going now, Julienne." No prayer of the sister could melt the astounded maiden or the astounded youth. Anger, with its speaking-trumpet and ear-trumpet, spoke and heard everything too strongly.
The Countess went out, and commanded to harness the horses. "O ye people, and thou obstinate one," said Julienne; "go, I pray, after her, and appease her." But the leaves of the sensitive-plant of his honor were now crushed; this (to him) new excitement, this shower of indignation had agitated him; he asked not after her. "Look up at that garden," said his sister, beside herself; "there lies buried thy first bride; O spare the second!" This worked exactly the opposite effect to what she had intended. "Liana," said he, coldly, "would not have been so; just go and attend the Countess!" "O ye men!" cried she, and went.
Soon after he saw the two drive away. Gradually the wild horde of indignation scattered and vanished. But he could not, he felt, have done otherwise. He had journeyed to meet her and she him with such new tenderness,—neither knew of it on the other's part,—and hence the incomprehensible contrast enraged both so exceedingly. He hated, even in other men, begging, how much more in himself, and never was he capable of setting right a person who misunderstood him. He looked now around him; all sparkling fountains of joy had suddenly sunk, the skies were desolate, and the water murmured in its depths. He rode up to the garden where Liana's grave should be. Only flower-beds and a linden-tree with a circular bench did he see there, but no grave. Stunned and confounded, he looked in and around over the shining spaces. Obdurate,—tearless,—with a heart suffocated in the regurgitating stream of love,—gazing out into the wide future, which ran between mountains into crooked valleys and hid itself, he rode gloomily home. Here he lighted upon the following leaf from Schoppe, which the uncle, hastening on in advance from Spain, had left for him.
"It is all right,—I found the well-known portrait,—I bring it along with me in my hunting-pouch,—I come in a few days or weeks,—I have encountered the Baldhead, and killed him dead enough,—I am very much in my senses. Thy singular uncle travelled with me for a long time. S."
