Voices were ringing through the spacious entrance-hall in tones so loud and excited that every word could be distinctly heard outside of the lofty doors. Within I saw the master of the house, his face deeply flushed, and beside him Cousin Kasimir, with his hat on one side of his head and in his hand a riding-whip with which he beat time to his uncle's words; behind the glass door appeared the faces of the two children and Mademoiselle Suzon, pressed closely against one another, while opposite to the baron stood a handsome, finely formed man, the cause and center of the whole scene, whom I had no difficulty in recognizing as the manager of the company of actors.
He was showily dressed in a blue coat with gilt buttons, black trousers, red velvet vest, and light cravat. Yet, this somewhat variegated attire was by no means unbecoming to him, since it made his symmetrical and not over-corpulent figure more conspicuous. His head was gracefully poised on his broad shoulders; but at first I only saw the lustrous black locks that fell rather low on his neck, then, as he turned his face, the finely cut profile and light-gray eyes, whose expression was both honest and self-conscious. He held in his left hand a pair of yellow gloves and a black hat, while he gesticulated eagerly with his right, making a red stone in his large seal ring glitter.
"Only one night, only this one night, Herr Baron," I heard him say in a resonant, somewhat theatrical voice, which, however, had a certain cadence that touched the heart. "If I must give up proving to you and your honored family, by a recitation, that you are not dealing with an ordinary strolling company, but with an artist by the grace of God--"
"I forbid you to utter the name of God uselessly," the baron vehemently interrupted. "The calling you pursue has nothing in common with God or divine things. We know what spirit rules those who devote themselves to your profession. And, in short, I shall not change what I have said."
"I will not discuss the matter further, Herr Baron," replied the actor with quiet dignity. "But consider, there is a sick woman in my company, who has been made much worse by the journey here over the rough roads. If she is permitted to rest this one night, we shall continue our way to-morrow with lighter hearts. Therefore I most earnestly beseech--"
"You have nothing to beseech; I have expressed my will," cried the baron furiously, passing his hand through his beard, which with him was always a sign of extreme anger. "I have told you that the control of the police regulations in the district intrusted to my care is in my hands, and that I could not reconcile it to my conscience if to-morrow, on the Lord's day, a few paces from the house in which his word is preached, one might meet a company of strolling players, whose depravity is stamped upon their brows. You will therefore return to your people at once, and see that they are ordered outside the limits of the village within an hour."
These words were accompanied with such an unequivocal gesture toward the door that I believed the final decision had been uttered. But the actor stood motionless, save that he turned his head toward the side where the stairs led to the upper story, and, as my glance followed his, I saw what had silenced him, though I did not instantly perceive the true cause. In the dusk above us, on the central landing, stood the tall, slender figure of the Canoness.
All eyes were involuntarily fixed upon her where she leaned, as though turned to stone, against the railing. She had grown deadly pale; life seemed to linger only in her eyes.
"Fräulein," I heard the stranger exclaim in a tone of the most joyful surprise, "you appear before me like an angel of deliverance. Can you refuse to say a word in my behalf? Consider that the point in question is not so much my sorely insulted dignity as an artist, as a simple duty of benevolence. Through a mistake, in taking what I supposed to be a short cut, I came here. For two years I have had the privilege of giving performances in the cities of Pomerania and the Mark, and, after spending several weeks in L----, I intended to go to R----, where I meant to practice my art during the last months of summer. I should probably have reached the railway-station to-day, had not the lady who plays the old woman's parts in my company been taken violently ill. And now the Herr Baron, as you have heard, wants to turn us out of his territory as though we were a band of gypsies. You, who know me, Fräulein, will not hesitate to be my security; you will explain to the baron--"