Translated From The Revue Du Monde Catholique.
Flaminia.
By Alexandre De Bar.
"So you really believe that the soul lives for ever?" said the Baron Frederic.
"Certainly I do," answered the Count Shrann.
"That is very strange," replied the first speaker, emptying at a single draught a tankard of beer whose size a German could alone look at without trembling.
"And you believe that those whom we have loved in this world we shall again love in the next, and they will remember us even as we shall remember them?"
"Certainly I do!" again replied the count.
"This is yet more strange," observed the baron; and then both of them continued to smoke on in silence. They seemed, indeed, so completely absorbed in the contemplation of the bluish clouds of smoke which they continued to puff forth so regularly into the already misty and thickened atmosphere, that one might reasonably have thought that the discussion would end there; but such was not the case.
Let us profit by this interval to make known to our readers who were the Count Shrann and the Baron Frederic. They were two old fellow-soldiers, of whom the recollection yet remains in the minds of those who knew them, as being the most perfect type of that warm and devoted friendship which is less rare than one thinks or than one will admit. They were two brave Germans, who had courageously held their places during the wars in the commencement of this century. They had fought side by side with all the ardor of their youth and patriotism, and had on many occasions saved each other's lives by their bravery. This community of dangers and obligations had yet further strengthened the links of a friendship commenced in their childhood; so that when the peace of 1815 gave to Europe, wearied out by war, a time of rest, our two friends placed their experience and capabilities at the service of their country, as they had already offered the tribute of their blood and courage, each taking on himself the tie and responsibility of married life. Both married on the same day the two daughters of a neighbor whom the war had ruined; and if their brides were little endowed with worldly possessions, at least they were rich in virtues, and that is a wealth which equals the former, although it be much less sought after, and, we may even add, more difficult to find.
Unfortunately these marriages so alike in happiness were far less so in their duration; for at the end of two years Gertrude, the wife of the Baron Frederic, died, leaving in the heart and life of her husband a void which nothing could fill. Many were the efforts made to console the poor baron, many were the mothers who lavished on him their sweetest smiles; many were the maidens who directed on him their chaste regards, and who pictured to themselves a brilliant future in which his name and fortune held a prominent place; but all was useless, for the baron remained quite insensible to these efforts and designs. His friend, and even his sister-in-law, counselled him to seek in a new marriage that close and loving friendship which he was so well adapted to appreciate; but at length, seeing him so obstinately faithful to the memory of Gertrude, they feared to afflict him, and so ceased to press him on the subject, trusting all to time, which, nevertheless, rolled on without bringing any change to the baron's regrets and resolutions. His was one of those strongly organized minds where the impressions, lively as they are lasting, resist the stronger that they are unaccompanied by outward efforts. Hence was it that the baron supported, without giving way an instant, the blow which had struck him, and yet the wound in his heart remained as sensitive and as painful as on that day when with his own hands he placed his well-beloved Gertrude in her shroud. Old age came on, bringing with it its longing for rest, and then the two friends quitted their public life as they had entered it, side by side. The baron went to live with his brother, for thus he designated his friend; and only once every year left his castle to visit his own property and tenants, toward whom he showed a kindness without limit. Some of these tenants abused that kindness, and paid their rent year after year, with tears, excuses, and complaints, the worthy baron leaving them unmolested; and when his steward spoke to him of sending off the estate these families, he replied: "Better that this should happen to me, who have patience with them, than send them away to those who probably would have none." No sooner was he returned to the castle than he forgot all these things, and recommenced spoiling and fondling his nephews and nieces, of whom he had no small number; for the Count Shrann was a descendant of those ancient families who seemed to have presented the prolific virtue of the golden age; nor did the number of his nephews and nieces give any anxious thoughts to the baron, since often would he say to his friend: