The only one of the children who had not inherited the beauty of the Dornthals was Clement, who looked more like his mother than the rest. He had the same ugliness and the same smile, and yet, as he was tall, slender, active, and robust, his form, without being elegant, was not devoid of grace, and when his thick hair was thrown back, the shape of his forehead gave a marked character to his face, and his look was, in flashes, expressive, decided, and intelligent. It was astonishing, therefore, to find young Dornthal so apparently incapable of self-assertion: the more so because he possessed great aptitude for the arts and sciences, and as a student he stood in the highest rank. But it seemed to be an effort for him to converse, and he was so absolutely silent in the drawing-room that his friends habitually avoided speaking to him. Elsewhere it was different. His father found it difficult to conceal the secret preference he felt for his eldest son, and the affectionate pride with which he regarded him was manifest in his looks on all occasions, in spite of himself. And Clement’s mother showed a confidence in him almost strange, considering his youth, and often seemed more disposed to consult than direct him. As to his brothers and sisters, they idolized him and were constantly recurring to
him; he had a remedy for every difficulty, a means for every end, and nothing exhausted his patience. In spite of this, as we have said, he scarcely attracted any attention in company. We can therefore understand why Fleurange, in continuing her inspection, did not stop long to consider her cousin, but, on the contrary, directed all her attention to a person at his side whose face was singularly remarkable. He was a man about fifty years old, perhaps older, for his bald head, gray beard, and pale face, marked by sickness, showed he was no longer young. But a something indefinable attracted attention, and induced people to inquire his name, and the name seemed so much in harmony with his countenance that, when known, it was not unusual to hear the exclamation: “So had I pictured him to myself.” Such, in fact, was that of Fleurange when, in reply to her question, her cousin Felix told her his name was Hansfelt.
“Karl Hansfelt!” she repeated for the second time; “is it he?—what! is that he?”
“Yes, my fair cousin, he himself,” replied Felix in a mocking tone. “In truth, I ought to consider myself fortunate in having at length found a subject of conversation that can interest you, but I did not think of being under obligations to old Hansfelt!”
“But is it not natural to regard a celebrated man with interest, and one so justly celebrated as he?” said she, turning her eyes once more toward her cousin. But she lowered them immediately, for the look fastened on her was more displeasing than any she had yet met—a look expressing at once impertinent admiration and entire want of kindness. She wished, nevertheless, to continue the conversation, and timidly said: “No one
can deny that he is a poet whose name is familiar to every one, and whose songs are in every memory.”
“As for me,” replied Felix Dornthal, “I am not fond of rhymsters; this one is particularly disagreeable to me; and his approaching departure does not at all afflict me.”
“Is he going away?” said Fleurange.
“Yes, it seems he has been offered a place at the court of ——, I hardly know what position, but one that will allow him to fully gratify his taste for old books, and at the same time—a thing by no means to be disdained, even by a poet—give him ample means of livelihood. He has suffered sweet violence, and in a short time we shall be deprived of the honor of receiving him within our walls—for ever deprived, it seems, for the kind prince, who is taking him away, insists on his not quitting his post.”
Fleurange made no reply: her glance had just fallen on her cousin Hilda, who was sufficiently near to hear the conversation, but not enough so to be able to take any part in it. She saw her suddenly stoop down to pick up a flower just fallen from her hand, and when she rose up there was a lively color in her face. This was a natural consequence of the movement she had just made, but what was less so was the paleness which gradually succeeded, and the trembling of her hand when she endeavored to raise a glass of water to her lips. Fleurange was observing this with a vague uneasiness, when her attention was suddenly called away by a question her Uncle Ludwig addressed to a young man seated at Clara’s side.