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OUR OWN SET

A NOVEL

BY

OSSIP SCHUBIN

From the German by CLARA BELL

REVISED AND CORRECTED IN THE UNITED STATES

NEW YORK
WILLIAM S. GOTTSBERGER, PUBLISHER
11 MURRAY STREET
1884

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1884

by William S. Gottsberger

in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington

THIS TRANSLATION WAS MADE EXPRESSLY FOR THE PUBLISHER

Press of
William S. Gottsberger
New York

OUR OWN SET

PART I.

THE CARNIVAL.

CHAPTER I.

At Rome in 1870. Roman society was already divided into "Le Monde noir" and "Le Monde blanc" which as yet gave no sign of amalgamation into a "Monde gris." His Holiness the Pope had entrenched himself in the Vatican behind his prestige of martyrdom; and the King already held his court at the Quirinal.

Among the distinguished Austrians who were spending the winter in Rome were the Otto Ilsenberghs. Otto Ilsenbergh, one of the leading members of the Austrian feudal aristocracy, was in Rome professedly for his health, but in reality solely in order to avail himself of the resources of the Vatican library in compiling that work on the History of Miracle which he has lately given to the world under a quaint pseudonym. He and his wife with a troup of red-haired Ilsenberghs, big and little, inhabited a straggling, historical palazzo on the Corso, with a glacial stone staircase and vast drawing-rooms which looked more fit for the meetings of conspirators than for innocent tea-drinkings and dances.

The countess was "at home" every evening when there was no better amusement to be had. She was by birth a princess Auerstein, of the Auerstein-Zolling branch, in which--as we all know--the women are remarkable for their white eyebrows and their strict morality. The Ilsenbergh salon was much frequented; the prevailing tone was by no means formal; smoking was allowed in the drawing-room--nay the countess herself smoked: to be precise she smoked regalias.

It was in the beginning of December; a wet evening and the heavy drops splashed against the window panes. Count Ilsenbergh was sitting in an immense reception-room decorated with frescoes, at a buhl table, evidently constructed for no more arduous duties than the evolution of love letters. He was absorbed in the concoction of an article for "Our Times." A paper of strictly aristocratic-conservative tendencies, patronized by himself, taken in by his fellow-aristocrats, but read by absolutely no one--excepting the liberal newspaper writers when in search of reactionary perversities. Count Ilsenbergh was in great trouble; the Austrian Ministry had crowned their distinguished achievements by one even more distinguished--for the fourth time within three years a new era was announced, and in defiance of prejudice a spick-and-span liberal ministry was being composed, destined no doubt to establish the prosperity of the Austrian people on a permanent basis--and beyond a doubt to cause a fresh importation of "Excellencies" into the fashionable salons of the Ringstrasse at Vienna. Count Ilsenbergh was prophesying the end of all things.

The countess was sitting at her ease on a sofa close to the fire-place, with its Renaissance chimaeras of white marble. The handsomest editions of the works of Ampère and Mommsen lay on the tables, but she held on her lap a ragged volume of a novel from a circulating library. She was a tall, fair woman with a high color and apricot-colored hair, a languid figure, slender extremities and insignificant features; she spoke French and German alike with a strong Viennese accent, dressed unfashionably, and moved awkwardly; still, no one who knew what was what, could fail to see that she was a lady and an aristocrat. At all court functions she was an imposing figure, she never stumbled over her train and wore the family diamonds with stately indifference.

The portière was lifted and General von Klinger was announced. General von Klinger was an old Austrian soldier whose good fortune it had been to have an opportunity of distinguishing himself with his cavalry at Sadowa, after which, righteously wroth at the national disaster, he had laid down his sword and retired with his General's rank to devote himself wholly to painting. Even as a soldier he had enjoyed a reputation as a genius and had covered himself with glory by the way in which he could sketch, with his gold-cased pencil on the back of an old letter or a visiting-card, a galloping horse and a jockey bending over its mane; a work of art especially admired for the rapidity with which it was executed. Since then he had studied art in Paris, had three times had his pictures refused at the salon and had succeeded in persuading himself that this was a distinction--in which he found a parallel in Rousseau, Delacroix and fifty fellow-victims who had been obliged to submit to a similar rebuff. Then he had come to Rome, an unappreciated genius, and had established himself in a magnificent studio in the Piazza Navona, which he threw open to the public every day from three till five and which became a popular rendezvous for the fashionable world. They laughed at the old soldier's artistic pretensions, but they could not laugh at him. He was in every sense of the word a gentleman. Like many an old bachelor who cherishes the memory of an unsuccessful love affair in early life, he covered a sentimental vein by a biting tongue--a pessimist idealist perhaps describes him. He was handsome and upright, with a stiffly starched shirt collar and romantic dark eyes--a thorough old soldier and a favorite with all the fine ladies of Roman society.

"It is very nice of you to have thought of us," said the countess greeting him heartily; "it is dreadful weather too--come and warm yourself."

The count looked up from his writing: "How are you General?" he said, and then went on with his article, adding: "Such an old friend as you are will allow me to go on with my work; only a few lines--half a dozen words. These are grave times, when every man must hold his own in the ranks!"--and the forlorn hope of the feudal cause dipped his pen in the ink with a sigh.

The general begged him not to disturb himself, the countess said a few words about some musical soirée, and presently her husband ended his page with an emphatic flourish, exclaiming: "That will give them something to think about!" and came to join them by the fire.

A carriage was heard to draw up in the street.

"That may be Truyn, he arrived yesterday," observed the countess, and Count Truyn was in fact announced.

Erich Truyn was at that time a man of rather more than thirty with hair prematurely gray and a glance of frosty indifference. People said he had been iced, for he always looked as though he had been frozen to the marrow in sublime superiority; his frigid exterior had won him a reputation for excessive pride, and totally belied the man. He was an uncommonly kind and noble-hearted soul, and what passed for pride was merely the shrinking of a sensitive nature which had now and again exposed itself to ridicule, perhaps by some outburst of high-flown idealism, and which now sought only to hide its sanctuary from the desecration of the multitude.

"Ah! Truyn, at last, and how are you?" cried the countess with sincere pleasure.

"Much as ever," replied Truyn.

"And where is your wife?" asked Ilsenbergh.

"I do not know."

"Is she still at Nice?"

"I do not know." And as he spoke his expression was colder and more set than before.

"Are you to be long in Rome?" said the countess, anxious to divert the conversation into a more pleasing channel.

"As long as my little companion likes and it suits her," answered Truyn. His 'little companion' always meant his only child, a girl of about twelve.

"You must bring Gabrielle to see me very soon," said the lady. "My Mimi and Lintschi are of the same age."

"I will bring her as soon as possible; unluckily she is so very shy she cannot bear strangers. But she has quite lost her heart to the general and to our cousin Sempaly."

"What, Nicki!" exclaimed the countess. "Do you mean that he has the patience to devote himself to children?"

"He has a peculiar talent for it. He dined with us to-day."

"He is an unaccountable creature!" sighed the countess. "He hardly ever comes near us."

At this moment a quick step was heard outside and Count Sempaly was announced.

"Lupus in Fabula!" remarked Ilsenbergh.

The new-comer was a young man of eight or nine and twenty, not tall, but powerfully though slightly built; his remarkably handsome, well-cut features and clear brown complexion were beautified by a most engaging smile, and by fine blue eyes with dark lashes and shaded lids. Under cover of that smile he could say the most audacious things, and whether the glance of those eyes were a lightning flash or a sunbeam no one had ever been quite certain. He gallantly kissed the tips of the countess's fingers, nodded to the men with a sort of brusque heartiness, and then seated himself on a cushion at the lady's feet.

"Well, it is a mercy to be allowed to see you at last; you really do not come often enough, Nicki; and in society I hardly ever meet you," complained the countess in a tone of kindly reproof. "Why do you so seldom appear in the respectable world?"

"Because he is better amused in the other world!" said Ilsenbergh with a giggle in an undertone.

But a reproachful glance from his wife warned him to be sober.

"I simply have not the time for it," said Sempaly half laughing. "I have too much to do."

"Too much to do!" said Truyn with his quiet irony.... "In diplomacy?--What is the latest news?"

"A remarkable article in the 'Temps' on the great washing-basin question," replied Sempaly with mock gravity.

"The washing-basin question!" repeated the others puzzled.

"Yes," continued Sempaly. "The state of affairs is this: When, not long since, the young duke of B---- was required to serve under the conscription, his feelings were deeply hurt by the fact that he had not only to live in barracks, but to wash at the pump like a common soldier. This so outraged his mamma that she went to the Minister of War to petition that her son might have a separate washing-basin; but after serious discussion her application was refused. It was decided that this separate washing-basin would be a breach of the Immortal Principles of '89."

"It is hardly credible!" observed Truyn; Ilsenbergh shrugged his shoulders and the countess innocently asked:

"What are the immortal principles of '89?"

"A sort of ideal convention between the aristocracy and the canaille," said Sempaly coolly. "Or if you prefer it, the first steps towards the abdication of privilege at the feet of the higher humanity," he added with a smile.

The countess was no wiser than before, Sempaly laughed maliciously as he fanned himself with a Japanese screen, and Ilsenbergh said: "Then you are a democrat, Sempaly?"

"From a bird's-eye point of view," added Truyn drily; he had not much faith in his cousin's liberalism.

"I am always a democrat when I have just been reading 'The Dark Ages,'" said Sempaly--'The Dark Ages' was the name he chose to give to Ilsenbergh's newspaper.--"Besides, joking apart, I am really a liberal, though I own I am uneasy at the growing power of the radicals. By the bye, I had nearly forgotten to give you two items of news that will delight you Fritzi,"--addressing the countess. "The reds have won all the Paris elections, and at Madrid they have been shooting at the king."

"Horrible!" exclaimed the countess, and she shuddered, "we shall see the Commune again before long."

"'93," said Truyn, with his tone of dry irony.

"We really ought to draw a cordon round the Austrian throne to protect it against the pestilential flood of democracy," said Sempaly very gravely. "Ilsenbergh you must petition the upper house."

"Your jokes are very much out of place," said the countess, "the matter is serious."

"Oh, no! not for us," said Truyn. "Our people are too long suffering."

"They are sound at the core," interrupted Ilsenbergh with dramatic emphasis.

"They do not yet know the meaning of liberty," said Sempaly laughing, "and to them equality is a mere abstraction--a metaphysical delicacy."

"They are thoroughly good and loyal!" exclaimed Ilsenbergh, "and they know...."

"Oh!" cried Sempaly, "they know very little and that is your safeguard. When once their eyes are opened your life will cease to be secure. If I had been a bricklayer I should certainly have been a socialist," and he crossed his arms and looked defiantly at his audience.

"A socialist!" cried Ilsenbergh indignantly. "You!--never. No, you could not have been a socialist; your religious feelings would have preserved you from such wickedness!"

"Hm!" replied Sempaly suspiciously, and Truyn said with a twist of his lips:

"As a bricklayer Sempaly might not have been so religious; he might have found some difficulty in worshipping a God who had treated him so scurvily."

"Hush, Truyn!" exclaimed Sempaly, somewhat anxiously to his cousin. "You know I dislike all such discussions."

"True. I remember you wear Catholic blinkers and are always nervous about your beliefs; and you would not like to feel any doubt as to the unlimited prolongation of your comfortable little existence," said Truyn in a tone of grave and languid banter. For Sempaly was not burthened with religion, though, like many folks to whom life is easy, he clung desperately to a hope in a future life, for which reason he affected 'Catholic blinkers' and would not have opened a page of Strauss for the world.

"The sword is at our breast!" sighed the countess still sunk in dark forebodings. "This new ministry!..." And she shook her head.

"It will do no harm beyond producing a few dreary articles in the papers and inundating us with new Acts which the crown will not trouble itself about for a moment," observed Sempaly.

"The Austrian mob are gnashing their teeth already!" said the lady.

"Nonsense! The Austrian mob is a very good dog at bottom; it will not bite till you forbid it to lick your hands," said her cousin calmly.

"I should dislike one as much as the other," said the countess, looking complacently at her slender white fingers.

"But tell us, Nicki," asked Ilsenbergh, "has not the change of ministry put a stop to your chances of promotion?" Sempaly was in fact an apprentice in the Roman branch of the great Austrian political incubator.

"Of course," replied Sempaly. "I had hoped to be sent to London as secretary; but one of our secretaries here is to go to England, and the democrats are sending us one of their own protégés in his place. My chief told me so this morning."

"Oh! who is our new secretary?" asked the countess much interested. "If he is a protégé of those creatures he must be a terrible specimen."

"He is one Sterzl--and highly recommended; he comes from Teheran where he has distinguished himself greatly," said Sempaly.

"Sterzl!" repeated Ilsenbergh scornfully.

"Sterzl!" cried the lady in disgust. "It is to be hoped he has no wife,--that would crown all."

"On that point I can reassure you," said the general; "Sterzl is unmarried."

"You know him?" murmured the countess slightly abashed.

"He is the son of one of my dearest friends--a fellow-officer," replied the general, "and if he has grown up as he promised he must be a man of talent and character--his abilities were brilliant."

"That is something at any rate," Ilsenbergh condescended to say.

"Yes, so it strikes me," added Sempaly; "we require one man who knows what work means."

"I was promised that my nephew should have the appointment," muttered the countess. "It is disgusting!"

"Utterly!" said Sempaly with a whimsical intonation. "A foreign element is always intrusive; we are much more comfortable among ourselves."

Tea was now brought in on a Japanese table and the secretary and his inferior birth were for the time forgotten.

CHAPTER II.

Sempaly was not merely affecting the democrat to annoy his cousin the countess; he firmly believed himself to be a liberal because he laughed at conservatism, and regarded the nobility as a time-honored structure--a relic of the past, like the pyramids, only not quite so perdurable. But in spite of his theoretical respect for the rights of man and his satirical contempt for the claims of privilege, Sempaly was really less tolerant than his cousin of "the dark ages." Ilsenbergh, with all his feudal crotchets, was an aristocrat only from a sense of fitness while Sempaly was an aristocrat by instinct; Ilsenbergh's pride of rank was an affair of party and dignity, Sempaly's was a matter of superfine nerves.

A few days after this conversation Sempaly met the general and told him that the new secretary had arrived, adding with a smile: "I do not think he will do!"

"Why not?" asked the general.

"He speaks very bad French and he knows nothing about bric-à-brac," replied Sempaly with perfect gravity. "I introduced him yesterday to Madame de Gandry and he had hardly turned his back when she asked me--she is the daughter of a leather-seller at Lille, you know--'is he a man of family?'--and would you believe it, I could not tell her. That is the sort of thing I never know." Then he added with a singular smile: "His name is Cecil--Cecil Maria. Cecil Maria Sterzl! It sounds well do not you think?"

Cecil Maria! It was a ridiculous name and ill-suited the man. His father had been an officer of dragoons who had retired early to become a country gentleman--the dearest dream of the retired officer; his mother was a faded Fräulein von ---- who had all her linen--not merely for her trousseau but all she ever purchased--marked with her coronet, who stuck up a flag on the turret of their little country house with her arms, and insisted on being addressed as baroness--which she never had been--by all her acquaintance. When, within a year of her marriage, she became the mother of a fine boy it was a burning question what his name should be.

"Cecil Maria," lisped the lady.

"Nonsense! The boy shall be called Anthony after his grandfather," said his father, and the mother burst into tears. What man can resist the tears of the mother of his first-born? The child was christened Cecil.

His father died at the early age of forty; his youngest child, a little girl whom he worshipped, was dangerously ill of scarlet fever and he fell a victim to his devotion to her. Cecil was at that time a pretty but rather delicate boy, with an intense contempt for the French language which his sister's governess tried to instil into him, and a pronounced preference for the society of the stable-lads and peasant boys; the baroness was always complaining that he was dirty and did not care to keep his hands white. The guardianship of the orphans devolved on General Sterzl, their father's elder brother, who honestly did his best for them, managing their little fortune with care, and conscientiously directing their education. After a brief but keen inspection of the clever spoilt boy, of his silly mother, and of his cringing tutor, he shrugged his shoulders over this country gentleman's life and placed the lad in the Theresianum, a college which in the estimation of every Austrian officer is the first educational establishment in the world--provided, that is to say, that he himself was not brought up there.

During the first six months Cecil was boundlessly miserable. All his life long till now he had been accustomed to be first; and it was hard suddenly to find himself last. Although his abilities were superior his neglected education placed him far below most of his companions, and besides this he was, as it happened, the only boy not of noble birth in this fashionable college, with the exception of a young Tyrolese whose descent was illegitimate, though he nevertheless was always boasting of his family. Then his companions laughed at his provincial accent, at his want of strength and at his queer name. We have all in our turn had to submit to this rough jesting. He could not for a long time get accustomed to it, and during the first half-year he incessantly plagued his mother and guardian to release him from what he called a prison; but they remained deaf to his entreaties. The visible outcome, when Cecil went home for the summer holidays, was a very subdued frame of mind, and nicely kept, long white nails. The next term began with his giving a sound thrashing to the odious Tyrolese who bored the whole school with his endless bragging and airs. This made him immensely popular; then he began to work in earnest; his masters praised his industry--and his complaints ceased. Had the subtle poison of pretentious vanity which infected the whole college crept into his veins? Had he begun to find a charm in hearing Mass read on Sundays and Highdays by a Bishop? To be waited on by servants in livery, to learn to dance from the same teacher who gave lessons at court, and to call the titled youth of the empire 'du'? It is difficult to say. He seemed perfectly indifferent to all these privileges and assumed no airs or affectations.--His pride was of a fiercer temper.

He finished his education by learning eastern languages, passed brilliantly, and, still aided by his uncle, went in for diplomacy. He was sent to an Asiatic capital which was just then undergoing a visitation of cholera and revolution; there again he distinguished himself and was decorated with the order of the Iron Crown.

One thing was soon very evident to every one in Rome: The new secretary was not a man whose character could be summed up in an epigram. There was nothing commonplace or pretty in the man. Externally he was tall and broad shouldered, with a well set carriage that gave him the air of a soldier in mufti; his hair was brown and close-cropped and his features sharply cut. In manner he was awkward but perfectly well-bred, unpretentious and simple. The ambassador's verdict on the new secretary was very different from Sempaly's. "He is my best worker," said his excellency: "A wonderful worker, and a long head--extraordinarily capable; but not pliant enough--not pliant enough...."

Nor was it only with his superiors that he found favor; the younger officials with whom he came in contact were soon on the best terms with him. He had one peculiarity, very rare in men who take life so seriously as he did: He never quibbled. The embassy at Rome at that time swarmed to such an extent with handsome, fashionable idlers that the Palazzo di Venezia was like a superior school for fine ladies with moustaches--as Sempaly aptly said. Sterzl looked on at their feeble doings with indulgent good humor; it was impossible to hope for any definite views or action from these young gentlemen; it would have been as wise to try to make butterflies do the work of ants. He himself was always ready to make good their neglect and gave them every liberty for their amusements. He wished to work, to make his mark--that was his business; to fritter away life and enjoy themselves was theirs. Thus they agreed to admiration.

But though his subalterns were soon his devoted allies, society at large was still disposed to offer him a cold shoulder. His predecessor in office had never pretended to do anything noteworthy as a diplomatist, but he had been an admirable waltzer, and--which was even more important--he had not disdained that social diversion; consequently he had been a favorite with the ladies of Rome who loudly bewailed his departure and were not cordial to his successor. Sterzl took no pains to fill his place; he had no trace of that obsequious politeness and superficial amiability which make a man popular in general society. His blunt conscientiousness and quite pedantic frankness of speech were displeasing on first acquaintance. In a drawing-room he commonly stood silently observant, or, if he spoke, he said exactly what he thought and expected the same sincerity from others. He could never be brought to understand that the flattery and subterfuge usual in company were merely a degenerate form of love for your neighbor; that the uncompromising truthfulness that he required must result in universal warfare; that the limit-line between sincerity and rudeness, between deference and hypocrisy, have never been rigidly defined; that the naked truth is as much out of place in a drawing-room as a man in his shirt-sleeves; and that, considering the defects and deformities of our souls, we cannot be too thankful that custom prohibits their being displayed without a decent amount of clothing. Merciful Heaven! what should we see if they were laid bare?

No, we cannot live without lying. A man who is used to society demands that it should tell lies, it is his right, and a courtesy to which he has every claim. When a man finds that society no longer thinks him worth lying to his part is played out and he had better vanish from the scene. In short, Sterzl had no sort of success with women; they dubbed him by the nickname of 'le Paysan du Danube.' Men respected him; they only regretted that he had so many extravagant notions, particularly a morbid touchiness as to matters of honor; however, that is a fault which men do not seriously disapprove of. To Sterzl himself it was a matter of entire indifference what was said of him by people who were not his personal friends. For a friend he would go through fire and water, but he would often neglect even to bow to an acquaintance in the street as he walked on, straight to his destination, his head full of grand schemes. He was fully determined to make his mark: to do--perhaps to become--something great ... but....

CHAPTER III.

Princess Vulpini, who had not escaped the fashionable complaint--the Morbus Schliemaniensis, had found a treasure no further off than in an old-clothes shop in the Via Aracoeli, where she had bought two wonderful shields from designs, she was assured, of Benvenuto Cellini's and a fragment of tapestry said to have been designed by Raphael, and she had invited a few intimate friends--Truyn, Sempaly, von Klinger, and Count Siegburg, an Austrian attaché, to give their opinion as to the genuineness of her find. She was Truyn's sister and a few years younger than he; she had met Prince Vulpini at Vichy when spending a season there with her invalid father and soon afterwards had married him, and now for twelve years she had lived in Rome, loving it well, though she never ceased railing at it for sundry inconveniences, was always singing the praises of Vienna and would have all her shopping done for her "at home" because she was convinced that nothing was to be had in Rome but photographs, antiques and wax-matches.

The company had just finished a lively dinner, throughout which they had unanimously abused the new Italian Ministry; but with the arrival of the coffee and cigarettes they turned to the consideration of the princess's antiquities which she had spread out on the floor for inspection. The gentlemen threw themselves on all-fours to examine the arras and the shields, and pronounced their verdict with conscientious frankness. No one, it seemed, was thoroughly convinced of the authenticity of the treasures but the Countess Marie Schalingen, a lady who had been for some few weeks in Rome as the princess's guest; all the others had doubts. The most vigorous sceptic of them all was Count Siegburg, who, to be sure, was the one who knew least of such matters, but who nevertheless spoke of "electrotype casts and modern imitations" with supreme decisiveness.

Wips, or more correctly Wiprecht Siegburg, was the spoilt child of the Austrian circle; I doubt whether he could have invented gunpowder, have discovered America, or have proved that the earth goes round, but for work-a-day company he was certainly pleasanter than Schwarz, Columbus or Galileo. He had been attached to the embassy with no hope of his finding a career, but simply to get him away from Vienna, where his debts had at last become inconveniently heavy. His widowed mother, after much meditation, had hit upon this admirable plan for checking her son in his extravagance.

"You make me quite nervous, Siegburg," said the princess at length, "though I know that you have not the faintest glimmering of knowledge on the subject."

"Perhaps you are right," he answered coolly. "At any rate, I have lost confidence lately in my critical instincts. I always used to think that the genuineness of antiquities was in proportion to their dirt; but now that I have learnt that even the dirt is counterfeit I have lost all basis of judgment."

They all laughed at this confession, not so much for its wit as because every one laughed at Siegburg's little sallies. They were in the smoking-room, a snug apartment, picturesquely and comfortably furnished with carved wood and oriental cushions. All the party were on the intimate terms of "just ourselves," a mixture of courteous deference and hearty friendliness. The conversation was not precisely learned; on the contrary, there was a certain frivolity in its tone; very bad jokes were perpetrated and some anecdotes related savoring of Saint-Simon in raciness without any one being scandalized, for they were not in the mood to run every jest to earth, to treat every point by chemical analysis, or take every word literally. Superficiality is sometimes a gracious and a blessed thing.

"I feel so thoroughly at home to-day--in such an Austrian atmosphere...." exclaimed the hostess. "But I have a presentiment that it will not be of long duration. Mesdames de Gandry and Ferguson are dining in this neighborhood...."

As she spoke the servant announced Prince Norina.

"'Coming events cast their shadows before,'" quoted Sempaly; it was well known that when Prince Norina made his appearance the Countess de Gandry would soon follow. Norina was fat and fair, handsome on the barber's block pattern, and for the last four or five years had been dancing attendance on the French countess. He bowed to the princess, shook hands with the men and was instantly seized upon by the master of the house to listen to a tirade on the latest misdemeanors of the government. Vulpini was the blackest of the Black, a strong adherent of the pope, though from political rather than religious bias---chiefly indeed as a fanatically exclusive Roman, who scorned to make common cause with Italy at large, and regarded "Italia unita" as a wild chimera. Prince Norina, who had no political convictions, listened to him and nodded assent to anything and everything.

The company now adjourned to the drawing-room, a large uncomfortable room furnished in a motley style, partly Louis XV. and partly Empire, and which opened out of the more splendid salon in which the princess received formally, and the boudoir to which none but her most intimate friends were admitted. The conversation had lost much of its liveliness, and had flattened to a level at which some of the company had taken refuge in photographs when Madame de Gandry and Mrs. Ferguson were announced and rustled in.

Madame de Gandry--a pale brunette, interesting rather than pretty, with a turned-up nose and hard bright eyes, noisy and coquettish, inconsiderate and saucy, because she fancied it gave her style--had for the last five years ruled the destinies of Prince Norina. Society had, however, agreed, perhaps for its own convenience, to regard their intimacy as mere good fellowship. The lady was looked upon as one of those giddy creatures who love to sport on the edge of an abyss. Mrs. Ferguson, the daughter of a hotel-keeper at San Francisco and wife of a man whose wealth increased daily, was the exact opposite to Madame de Gandry--white and pink, with large eyes and sharp little teeth, very slender and flat-figured like many Americans. She dyed her hair, rouged, dressed conspicuously, spoke eccentric English and detestable French, sang Judic's songs, and had been introduced to Roman society by the Marchese B---- who had met her at Nice. Her friendship with Madame de Gandry had begun on the strength of a landau they had hired between them, had culminated in an opera-box on the same terms, and would probably be destroyed by a lover--in common too.

A few gentlemen had also arrived: Count de Gandry, who looked like a hair-dresser and was suspected of carrying on a covert business as dealer in antiquities; M. Dieudonné Crespigny de Bellancourt, a square-built French diplomatist, the son of a butcher and son-in-law to a duke, etc., etc. The latest bankruptcy, the climate of Rome, the excavations, were all discussed. Madame de Gandry and Mrs. Ferguson submitted at first to the tedium of a general conversation, but contrived at the same time to attract as much of the men's attention as was possible under the circumstances. Soon after eleven the Countess Ilsenbergh came in; she had come from a grand dinner and looked bored to death.

"It really is absurd how one meets every one in Rome," she said presently, when she had been questioned as to the how and where of the party she had just quitted. "Who do you think I came across to-day, Marie?--That Lenz girl from Vienna; now she is a duchess or a Countess Montidor--Heaven knows which; once, years ago, I had something to do with a charity sale she got up, so now she comes up to me as if I were an old acquaintance and pretends to be intimate, talks of 'we Austrians,' and 'at home at Vienna.'--Amusing, rather?"

"Poor Fritzi! I feel for you!" exclaimed Sempaly with a malicious laugh. "But there is a greater treat in store for you. The Sterzl women, mother and sister, are coming in a few days."

"Indeed! that is pleasant certainly!"

"Why?" asked Madame de Gandry, throwing herself into the conversation. "Are they objectionable people?"

"By no means," said the countess quickly. "I believe they are the most respectable people in the world, but--it is a bore to be constantly meeting people here whom one could not possibly recognize in Vienna. You should give him a hint, Nicki--tell him--explain to him...."

"To be sure," said Sempaly laughing, "I might say: Look here, my good friend, beware of taking your mother and sister out anywhere; my cousin the countess would rather not meet them."

The countess shrugged her shoulders and turned away from her flippant interlocutor, tapping her fan impatiently. "Do you mean to receive them Marie?" she asked.

"Whom do I not receive?" said the princess in an undertone, with a significant glance.

"Well I cannot--decidedly not," said the countess excitedly, "though I shall be grieved to annoy Sterzl. It will be his own fault entirely if he forces me to explain myself."

"Do as you think proper," replied her friend, "but you know I am very fond of Sterzl; he stands high in my good graces."

"What! le Paysan du Danube?" giggled Madame de Gandry, who had only partly understood the conversation.

"Sterzl is a man of the highest respectability," said the countess icily; she did not intend to allow that little French woman to laugh at her fellow-countryman, though he was not a man of birth.

"Le Paysan du Danube is my particular friend," said the princess with the simple heartiness that was so peculiarly her own. "I am very fond of him; he is quite one of ourselves."

"He can have no higher reward on earth," said her brother with good-humored irony.

"When my small boy fell and broke his arm, here in this very room, Sterzl picked him up, and you should have seen how gently he held my poor darling," added the princess.

"That is ample evidence in favor of the fact that his woman-kind are presentable," laughed Sempaly.

"But allow me to ask," interposed the Madame de Gandry, "just that I may understand what I am about--these Sterzls, they are not in good society in Austria?"

"Our Austrian etiquette can afford no standpoint for foreign society," said Truyn with unusual sharpness, for he could not endure Madame de Gandry; "we receive no one who is not by birth one of ourselves."

"Yes," said Sempaly with a keen glance, "Austrian society is as exclusive as the House of Israel, and scorns proselytes." And the leather-seller's daughter, who had not understood--or not chosen to understand Truyn's speech, replied with much presence of mind: "Ah, I am glad to know what I am about."

Siegburg, who was sitting behind her, glanced at Sempaly and made an expressive grimace.

Princess Vulpini looked almost spiteful. "I will not leave Sterzl in the lurch," she said, "and if his sister is like his description of her...."

"He has talked to you about his sister?" interrupted Sempaly.

"To be sure," said the princess with a smile, "and to you too, I should not wonder, Nicki?"

"No indeed, he does not show me his sacred places, I am not worthy," replied Sempaly. "He only told me that she was coming, and with a very singular smile. Hm, Hm! he seems to set great store by the young lady and will no doubt look out for a fine match for her. I should not wonder if he had got her here for that express purpose. Norina, take care of yourself--forewarned you know...."

"Mademoiselle Sterzl will hardly aspire to a prince's crown!" exclaimed Madame de Gandry, up in arms to defend her property.

"Sterzl will not let his sister go for less," asserted Sempaly.

"Do not talk such nonsense," said Truyn, to check Sempaly's audacity.

But Sempaly was leaning over a table and scribbling on the back of an old letter; presently he handed the half sheet to the Countess Ilsenbergh; Madame de Gandry peeped over her shoulder.

"Capital!" she exclaimed, "delicious!" Sempaly had sketched Sterzl as an auctioneer, the hammer in one hand and a fashionably-dressed doll in the other, with all the Princes in Rome crowded round. In one corner he had written: "This lot--Fräulein Sterzl--once, twice, thrice...."

The sketch was handed round; the likeness of Sterzl was unmistakable. Soon after the Countess Ilsenbergh went away, and as the company were not in the best of humors the two friends also withdrew shortly after midnight followed by those gentlemen who had come in their train.

"Fritzi is really a victim to an idée fixe," the princess began when this indiscreet group had departed; "she wants me to entrench myself in dignified reserve against this poor little thing. What harm can the child do me?"

"I cannot imagine," said Siegburg; "indeed, if she is pretty and has some money, it strikes me I will marry her myself--that will set matters straight" Siegburg was fond of talking of the money that his wife must bring him, and liked to air the selfishness of which he was innocent, as very rich folks sometimes make a parade of poverty.

"And it was really very stupid of Fritzi to ventilate this idiotic nonsense before those two women," added the princess, who was apt to express herself strongly; but nothing that she said ever sounded badly, on the contrary, she lent a grace to whatever she said. "Does she think she can make me turn exclusive!"

"I hope you observed how that pinchbeck countess was prepared to tread in her footsteps," said Seigburg.

Truyn meanwhile was hunting eagerly about the chimney-shelf and the tables, assisted by the master of the house.

"What are you looking for, Erich?" asked his sister.

"For that sketch of Sempaly's. I should not like to leave the thing about. Excuse me, Nicki, the caricature was capital, I have nothing to say against it, if it had only been among ourselves; but you really ought not to have shown it to strangers. You are so heedless, you do not think of what you are doing."

"And what have I done now?" asked Sempaly without any trace of annoyance.

"You have simply stamped this young girl as an adventuress on the look-out for a husband."

"Pooh! as if so trifling a jest could be taken in earnest!" said Sempaly. They searched everywhere for the caricature but in vain.

"I am convinced that wretched woman put it in her pocket!" cried the princess indignantly. That wretched woman was of course Madame de Gandry.

It was true that Princess Vulpini was very fond of Sterzl, and he returned her regard with almost rapturous devotion. In spite of an unpolished and absent manner he had a vein of poetic chivalry and a pure reverence for true and lofty womanhood. He could not think it worth his while to offer to any woman that flattery--often impertinent enough in reality--that gratifies some of the sex, and he had never learnt the A B C of modern gallantry; but in his intercourse with those whom he spoke of as "true women" there was a touch of chivalrous protection and reserved deference. His behavior to them was so full of an old-fashioned courtesy that he was certain to win their favor; he treated them partly like children that must be cared for, and partly like sacred beings before whom we must bow the knee.

Immediately on his arrival in Rome the princess found great pleasure in their acquaintance, she confided to him all her little indignation at this or that grievance in Rome, and allowed him to take a variety of small cares off her shoulders, being, as all women of her soft nature are, very fastidious and utterly unpractical.

There had been few sweeter girls in the Vienna world than the Countess Marie Truyn in her day, and there was not now in all Rome a more lovable woman than the Princess Vulpini. When in the afternoons she drove out in her open carriage, with her four or five children that looked as though they had been stolen straight out of one of Kate Greenaway's picture books, along the Corso to the Villa Borghese, her fashionable acquaintance, who had brought out their most recent or most fashionable bosom-friend instead of their children, would exclaim: "Here comes true happiness!" And the men bowed to her with particular respect, eager to win the friendly and gracious smile that warmed all hearts like a ray of spring sunshine. She had never been a regular beauty and had early lost her youthful freshness and the slim figure that had been almost proverbial. Nevertheless her charm was undiminished; her chief ornament, a wonderful abundance of bright brown hair, was as fine as ever and she wore it still, as when a girl of sixteen, simply combed back and gathered into a knot low down at the back. In spite of her faded complexion there was a childlike sweetness in her small round face, with its kind little eyes, its delicate turned-up nose, and soft lips that had no beauty till they smiled. All her movements were simple and graceful and her whole appearance conveyed the impression of exquisite refinement and the loftiest womanliness. Her dress was apt to be a little out of fashion, the latest chic never suited her. She was a great reader, even of very solid books, especially affecting natural science; but she retained nevertheless the literal faith of her infancy, and this innocent orthodoxy was part and parcel of the simple fervency of her character. Sempaly, who was sincerely attached to her, always spoke of her devout piety as one of her most engaging qualities; he declared that a woman to be truly sympathetic must be religious; that a man may allow himself to profess free thought, but that a sceptical woman was as odious as a woman with a hump. To this observation, which Sempaly once threw out in the presence of Sterzl, Cecil took great exception, though he himself was as devoid of religious beliefs as Sempaly himself; he thought it impertinent.

"Men do not jest about the women whose names are sacred to them," he said with the pedantic chivalry, which always provoked his colleague's opposition. However, Sempaly only retorted with a sneering smile and a shrug.

CHAPTER IV.

A few days after the evening when Sempaly had given such brilliant proof of his talent as a caricaturist, General von Klinger was sitting in his studio on a divan covered with a picturesque Persian rug and endeavoring--having for the moment nothing better to do--to teach his parrot to sing the Austrian anthem--a loyal task which the bird, perched on the top of its cage, persistently refused to learn. It was a gorgeous studio, with a coved ceiling painted in fresco and a rococo plaster cornice, the walls hung with old tapestry, eastern stuffs and other "properties." It was so large that men looked like dwarfs in it, and the general's works of art like illustrations cut out of a picture book. The scirocco brooded in the atmosphere and the general was out of sorts; he could not get on with his painting, and though it was now a quarter to five not a visitor had he seen. Usually by this hour he had a number--nay sometimes too many. The general often grumbled--to himself of course--at the interruption; but he always enjoyed the little dissipation; it made him melancholy to be left to himself.

He was thinking just now how difficult it was to get on as a painter; his coloring was capital--so all his artist friends assured him; but that his drawing left much to be desired he himself confessed. His two strong points were a harmonious effect of grey tone and horses seen from behind. All his pictures returned to him from the exhibitions unsold, excepting one which was purchased by the emperor in consideration of the general's former merits as a soldier rather than of his talents as an artist. The painters who came to smoke his cigarettes accounted for this by saying that his artistic aims were too independent, that he made no concessions to public taste and so could not hope for popularity.

He was in the very act of whistling the national anthem for the sixteenth time to the recalcitrant bird, when he heard a knock at the door; he rose to open it and Sempaly came in. He had called to inform the general that he had discovered a very fine though much damaged piece of tapestry in a convent, and had bought it for a mere song; he had in fact purchased it for the general because he knew that it was just such a specimen as he had long wished for. "But if you do not care to take it I shall be very glad to keep it," he added. No one had the art of doing an obliging thing with a better grace than he; it was one of his little accomplishments.

When they had settled their business Sempaly broke into loud lamentations that he was obliged to dine that day at the British embassy, and then to dance at the French ambassador's, and raved about the ideal life led by his friend--he only wished he could lead such a life--in which there were no evening parties, routs, balls or dinners. Next he wandered round the room looking at all the studies that hid their faces against the wall. "Charming!" "Superb!" he kept exclaiming in French, with his Austrian accent, from a sheer impulse to say something pleasant--he always tried to make himself pleasant. "Why do not you work that thing up?" he said at length, pointing to a sketch on canvas of a group of bashibazouks.

"It might sell," replied the artist whose great difficulty always lay in the 'working up,' "but you know I am independent in my aims, I set my face against making concessions to the vulgar; I must work on my own principles and not to pander to the public."

Sempaly smiled at this profession of faith.

"As it is a mere whim with you ever to sell at all," he answered, "my advice is that you should never attempt it, but leave all your works to the nation, so that we may have a Musée Wierz at Vienna."

The general assured him that he was quite in earnest in his desire to sell his pictures, but Sempaly smiled knowingly.

"There was once upon a time," he began, "a cobbler who was a man of genius, but he prided himself on his sense of beauty and his artistic convictions, and he heeded not the requirements of his customers--he would make nothing but Greek sandals. He died a beggar, but happy in the consciousness of never having made a concession to the vulgar."

The general was on the point of making an indignant reply to this malicious anecdote, when the loud rap was again heard which seems to be traditional at a studio door; it is supposed to be necessary to arouse the artist from his absorption in his work. The general went to admit his visitor.

There was a small ante-room between the studio and the stairs. The door was no sooner opened than in flitted a slender creature, fair and blooming, tall, slim, and bewitchingly pretty, in a dark dress and a sealskin jacket.

"What, you Zinka!" cried the old general delightedly. "This is a surprise! How long have you been in Rome?"

"Only since this morning," answered a gay voice.

"And are you alone?" asked the artist in astonishment, as Zinka shut the door and went forward into the atelier.

"Yes, quite alone," she said calmly. "I left the maid at home; she and mamma are fast asleep, resting after their journey. I came alone in a carriage--it was very nice of me do not you think?--Why, what a face to make!... And why have you not given me a kiss. Uncle Klinger?" She stood before him bright and confident, her head a little thrown back, her hands in a tiny muff, gazing at him with surprise in her frank grey eyes.

"My dear Zinka...." the general began--for, like all conscientious old gentlemen with romantic memories, he was desperately punctilious as to the proprieties when any lady in whom he took an interest was implicated, "I am charmed, delighted to see you.... But in a strange place, where you know no one, and in a strange house where...."

"Oh, now I understand," cried the girl. "It is not proper!... I shall live to be a hundred before I know exactly what is proper; it is very odd, but Uncle Sterzl used always to say that it was of no use to worry about it; that if people were ladies and gentlemen everything was proper, and if they were not why it was all the same. But he did not know what he was talking about, it would seem!" and she turned sharply on her heel and made for the door.

"But, my dear Zinka," cried the general holding her back, "tell me at least where you are living before you whisk off like a whirlwind. Do not be so utterly unreasonable."

"I am perfectly reasonable," she retorted. She was both embarrassed and angry; her cheeks were scarlet and her eyes full of tears. "It never would have occurred to me certainly that there was anything improper in calling on an old gentleman," and she emphasized the words quite viciously, "in his studio. Oh, the vanity of men! Who can foresee its limits!--But I am perfectly reasonable, I acknowledge my mistake--simpleton that I am!... And I have been looking forward all day to taking you by surprise. I meant to ask you to dine with us at the Hotel de l'Europe and to come with me first to the Pincio to see the sunset. And these are the thanks I get!... Do not trouble yourself to get your hat, it is waste of trouble; I do not want you now. Good-bye." And she flew off, her head in the air, without looking back once at the general who dutifully escorted her to the carriage.

The old man came back much crest-fallen. A voice greeted him cheerfully:

"Quite in disgrace, general!"

It was Sempaly, who had witnessed the whole scene from a recess, and whom the general had entirely forgotten.

"So it seems," said he shortly, beginning to scrape his palette.

"But tell me who is this despotic little princess?"

"Who? My god-daughter, Zinka Sterzl."

Thunderbolts are out of date, no one believes in them now-a-days; nevertheless it is a fact, which Sempaly himself never contradicted, that he fell in love with Zinka at first sight. And when a few days after Zinka's irruption into the general's studio the old gentleman accepted an invitation to dine with the Baroness Sterzl at the Hotel de l'Europe, on entering the room he found, eagerly employed in looking over a quantity of photographs with the young lady--Count Sempaly.

The two gentlemen were the only guests, and yet--or perhaps in consequence--the little party was as gay and pleasant as was possible with so affected and formal a hostess as the "Baroness."

This lady, a narrow and perverse soul as ever lived, was the very essence of vanity and affectation. She imagined--Heaven alone knows on what grounds--that the general had formerly loved her hopelessly, and she always treated him accordingly with a consideration that was intolerably irritating. She had made great strides in the airs of refinement since she and the general had last met--at a time before she, or rather her children, had become rich through an advantageous sale of part of their land, and this of course added to the charms of her society. She was perpetually complaining in a tone of feeble elegance--the sleeping-carriages were intolerable, the seats were so badly stuffed, Rome was so dirty, the hotels were so bad, the conveyances so miserable; she brought in the names of all the aristocratic acquaintances they had made at Nice, at Meran, and at Biarritz, and asked--the next day being a saint's day--which church was fit to go to. The vehement old general answered hotly that "God was in them all." But Sempaly informed her with the politest gravity that Cardinal X---- read mass in the morning at St. Peter's and that the music was splendid. "I advise you to try St. Peter's."

"Indeed, is St. Peter's possible on a saint's day?" she asked. "The company is usually so mixed in those large churches."

The general fairly blushed for her follies on her children's account.

"Have you forgiven me, Zinka?" he said to change the conversation.

"As if I had time to trouble myself about your strait-laced proprieties!" exclaimed she, coloring slightly; she evidently did not like this allusion to her little indiscretion: "I have something much worse to think about."

"Why--what is the matter, sweetheart?" asked her brother, who took everything seriously.

"I have lost something," she said in a tone of deep melancholy which evidently covered some jest.

"Not a four-leaved shamrock or a medal blessed by the pope?" asked the general.

"Oh, no! something much more important."

"Your purse!" exclaimed the baroness hastily. But Zinka burst out laughing. "No, no, something much greater--you will never guess: Rome."

On which Sterzl, who could never make out what his fascinating little sister would be at, only said: "That is beyond me."

But Sempaly was sympathetic. "I see you are terribly disappointed," he said, and Zinka went on like a person accustomed to be listened to.

"Yes, ever since I could think at all I have dreamed of Rome and longed to see it. My Rome was a suburb of Heaven, but this Rome is a suburb of Paris. My Rome was glorious and this Rome is simply hideous."

"Do not be flippant, Zinka," said the general, who always upheld traditional worship.

"Well, as a city Rome is really very ugly," interposed her brother, "it is more interesting as a museum of antiquities with life-size illustrations. Still, you do not know it yet. You have seen nothing as yet...."

"But lodgings, you mean," retorted Zinka, casting down her eyes with sanctimonious sauciness.

"It is dreadful!" the baroness began, "we have been here five days and cannot find an apartment fit to live in. Wherever we go there is some drawback; the stairs are too dark, or the entrance is bad, or there is only one door to the salon, or the servants' rooms...."

"But my dear Zinka," interrupted the general, "if you really have seen nothing of Rome excepting the lodgings in the Corso, of course...."

"Oh! but I have seen something else," cried Zinka, "indeed, I know my way about Rome very well."

"In your dreams?"

"No, I went yesterday; mamma had a sick headache."

"Oh! those headaches!" sighed the baroness putting her salts to her nose, "I am a perfect martyr to them!"

To have sick headaches and be a strict Catholic were marks of good style in the baroness's estimation. Sempaly put on a sympathetic expression, but returned at once to the subject in hand.

"Yes, I know Rome very well," Zinka went on: "You have only to ask the driver of the street cab No. 1203, and he will tell you. I drove about with him for three hours yesterday. You see, to have been in Rome a whole week and to have seen nothing but furnished lodgings was really too bad, so I took advantage of the opportunity when mamma was in bed; I slipped out--you need not make that face, Uncle, I took the maid with me--we meant to walk everywhere with a map. Of course we lost our way, cela va sans dire, and as we were standing helpless, each holding the map by a corner, a driver signed to us--so, with his first finger. In we got and he asked us where we wished to go, but as I had no answer ready he said with the most paternal air: 'Ah! the signora wants to see Rome--good, I will show her Rome!' And he set off, round and round and in and out, all through the city. I was positively giddy with this waltz round all the sights of Rome. He showed me a perfect forest of fallen pillars, with images of gods and fragments of sculpture carefully heaped round them, like Christmas boxes for lovers of antiquities--'the Campo Vaccino,' he called it--I believe it was the Forum; then he pointed out the palace of Beatrice Cenci, the Jews' quarter, the Theatre of Marcellus, the Temple of Vesta; and every time he showed me anything he added: 'Now am I not a capital guide? Many a driver would only take you from place to place, and what would you see? Nothing ... a heap of stones ... but I tell you: that is the Colisseum, and this is the Portico of Octavia, and then the stones have some meaning.' And at last he set me down at the door of the hotel and said quite seriously: 'Now the signora has seen Rome.'"

They were now at dessert; the baroness looked anything rather than pleased.

"Allow me to request," she said, "that for the future in the first place you will not make friends with a common driver and in the second, that you will not drive about Rome in a Botta (a one horse carriage); it is not at all the thing. You have no sense of fitness whatever."

Zinka, who was both sensitive and spoilt, colored.

"Let her be, mother, why should she not learn a little Italian and ride in a Botta? said Sterzl, who rubbed his mother the wrong way from morning till night. Sempaly took prompt advantage of the situation to whisper to Zinka:

"I cannot promise to be as good company as your Botta driver, but if you will allow me, I will do my best to help you to find the Rome you have lost."

"Are you sure you know your way about?" asked the girl with frank incivility.

"I am the laquais de place of the Embassy I assure you," replied Sempaly laughing; "my only serious occupation consists in showing strangers the sights of Rome."

After this the evening passed gaily; the baroness made a few idiotic speeches but Sempaly forbore to be ironical; he was on his very best behavior, and the baroness was quite taken in by his elaborate reserve. Not so Sterzl, who was himself too painfully alive to her aristocratic airs and pretensions. However, the society of his sister, whom he adored, had put him into the best of humors; he launched forth a few bitter epigrams against the priesthood, and was satirical about the society of Rome, but Zinka stopped him every time with some engaging nonsense, and in listening to her chatter he forgot his bitterness.

At last he asked her to sing a Moravian popular song; she seated herself at the hotel piano and began. There was something mystical in the low veiled tones of her voice like an echo of the past, as she sang the melancholy, dreamy strains of her native land. Sterzl, who always yawned all through an opera, listened to her singing, his head resting on his hand, in a sort of ecstasy. In Sempaly too, who in spite of his Hungarian name was by birth a Moravian, Zinka's simple melody roused the half-choked echoes of his youth, and when she ceased he thanked her with genuine feeling.

Zinka's was an April weather nature. After bringing the tears into the eyes of her hearers, nay into her own, with her song, she suddenly struck up an air by Lecocq that she had heard Judic sing at Nice. The words, as was perfectly evident to all the party, were Hebrew to the girl, but the baroness was beside herself.

"Zinka!" she exclaimed in extreme consternation, "you really are incredible--what must these gentlemen think of you!"

"Do not be in the least uneasy," said the general. But Zinka stopped short; her face was pale and quivering; Sterzl interposed:

"It is often a little difficult to follow my sister's vagaries," he said turning to Sempaly; then he tenderly stroked her golden head with his large, firm hand, saying: "Do not be unhappy, sweetheart; but you are a little too much of a goose for your age."

When presently Sempaly had quitted the hotel with the general his first words were: "Tell me, how is it that with such a fool of a mother that child has remained so angelically fresh--so Botticelli?"

CHAPTER V.

A mine somewhere in Poland or Bohemia came to grief about this time by some accidental visitation, and five hundred families were left destitute through the disaster. Of course the opportunity was immediately seized upon for charitable dissipations, for qualifying for Orders of Merit by liberal donations, and for attracting the eyes of Europe by the most extravagant display of philanthropy. After much deliberation Countess Ilsenbergh had arrived at the conviction that, as both the ambassadors' families were hindered by mourning from giving any public entertainment, the duty of taking the lead devolved upon her. The rooms in her Palazzo were made on purpose for grand festivities, and after endless discussion it was decided that the entertainment should be dramatic. An Operetta, a Proverbe by Musset, and a series of Tableaux Vivants were finally put in rehearsal and a collection was to be made after the performance.

Madame de Gandry threw herself into the undertaking with the most commendable ardor. She was on intimate terms with the leading spirits at the Villa Medici--the French Academy of Arts at Rome--and she interested herself in the painting of the scenes, and in the artistic designing of the dresses in which she proved invaluable. Up to a certain point all went smoothly. The operetta--an unpublished effort of course--by a Russian amateur of rank who was very proud of not even knowing his notes, was soon cast. It needed only three performers and led up to the introduction of an elaborate masquerade and of certain suggestive French songs. Mrs. Ferguson, who never let slip an opportunity of powdering her hair and sticking on patches, was to sing the soprano part; Crespigny took that of a husband or a guardian in a nightcap or flowered dressing-gown, and a young French painter, M. Barillat, who was at all times equally ready to sketch or to wear a becoming costume, was to fill that of the lover. The cast of the little French play was equally satisfactory; but when the arrangement of the tableaux came to be considered difficulties arose. In the first place all the ladies were eager to display their charms under the becoming light of a tableau vivant; and the number of volunteers was quite bewildering to the committee of management that met every day at the Ilsenberghs' house. Then squabbles and dissatisfaction arose; the ladies did not approve of the choice of subjects, they thought their dresses unbecoming, their positions disadvantageous; each one to whom a place at the side was assigned was deeply aggrieved; an unappreciated beauty who prided herself on her profile from the left would not for worlds be seen from the right, etc., etc. And above all--an insuperable difficulty--almost all the available men of the set manifested the greatest objection to 'making themselves ridiculous' and positively rejected the most flattering blandishments of the ladies' committee. Sempaly, who had been asked to appear as a Roman emperor, would not hear of putting on flesh-colored tights and a wreath of vine; and Truyn had shrugged his shoulders at the proposal that he should don a wig with long curls.

Siegburg--little Siegburg, as he was always called, though he was nearly six feet high--after defending himself with considerable humor, good-naturedly agreed to stand as Pierrot, in a Watteau scene in which the Vulpini children were to appear; and Sterzl, being personally requested by his ambassador, submitted, though with an ill grace, to be the executioner in Delaroche's picture of Lady Jane Grey. This tableau was to be the crowning glory of the performance; Barillat had taken infinitely more pains with it than with any other; the part of Lady Jane was to be filled by a fair English girl, Lady Henrietta Stair; and then, within a few days of the performance, Lady Henrietta fell ill of the measles.

The committee were in despair when this news reached them, and all who were concerned in the performance were summoned to meet at the Palazzo that evening to talk the matter over. Hardly any one was absent; only Sterzl, who detested the whole charity scramble, as he called it, sent his excuses. Every lady present expected to find herself called upon to stand--or rather to kneel--as Lady Jane Grey; but Mrs. Ferguson was the first to give utterance to the thought, and to offer herself heroically as Lady Henrietta's substitute. To the astonishment of all the company Sempaly, whose interest in the work of benevolence had hitherto displayed itself only in satirical remarks, and suggestions as to the representation of Makart's 'entrance of Charles V.' or of Siemiradzky's 'living torches,' took an eager part in the discussion.

"Your self-sacrifice, Mrs. Ferguson," said he, "is more admirable every day."

"Dear me," replied the lady innocently, "where is the self-sacrifice in having an old gown cut up into a historical costume?"

"That, indeed, would be no sacrifice," said Sempaly coolly. "But it must be a sacrifice for a lady to appear in a part that suits her so remarkably ill."

Mrs. Ferguson smiled rather like some pretty little wild beast showing its teeth.

"Ah!" she said, "I suppose you think I have none of that pathetic grace that M. Barillat is so fond of talking about."

"No more than of saving grace," said Sempaly solemnly. Then, while the women were disputing over the matter, he found an opportunity of whispering a few words to Barillat; Barillat looked up delighted. At this moment they were joined by Countess Ilsenbergh.

"I have another suggestion to offer Madame la Comtesse; I have thought of some one...."

"Some newly-imported American," laughed Madame de Gandry, "or a painter's model with studied grace and yellow hair?"

"You may rest assured that I should not for an instant think of proposing to employ a model," Barillat emphatically declared; "no, the lady in question is a very charming person: Fräulein Sterzl. I saw her the day before yesterday at Lady Julia Ellis's; she is an Austrian--you must know her surely?"

"I have not that pleasure," said the countess drily.

"You do not think she will do?" murmured the artist abashed. The countess cleared her throat.

"Bless me!" cried Madame de Gandry furious at the pride of her Austrian friend, "you take the matter really too much in earnest. Why on earth should not the girl act with us? On these occasions, in Vienna, as I have been informed, even actors are invited to help."

"That is quite different," said the countess.

Madame de Gandry shrugged her shoulders and turned away and the countess beckoned to her cousin Sempaly. "I am heartily sick of the whole business," she exclaimed. "At home I have got this sort of thing up a score of times, and everything has gone well ... while here...."

"Yes, there is more method among us," replied Sempaly sympathetically.

"The people here are so unmanageable; every one wants to play the best parts," said the countess.

"That is the result of the republican element," observed Sempaly.

"And now there is all this difficulty about the Lady Jane Grey tableau," sighed the countess. "Why need that English girl take the measles now, just when she is wanted."

"The English are always so inconsiderate," said Sempaly gravely.

"Do you happen to have met this little Sterzl girl?"

"Yes."

"What does she look like?"

"Well, she looks like a very pretty girl...."

"And besides that?"

"Besides that she looks very much like our own girls; it is really a most extraordinary freak of nature! She seems to be very presentable on further acquaintance; Princess Vulpini is quite in love with her."

"Indeed!--Well, Barillat is possessed with the idea of having her to play the part of Lady Jane Grey and in Heaven's name let him have his own way!" cried the countess. "If Marie Vulpini will bring her here I will make the best of it."

"What, you mean to say that you will let her figure in your tableau and not invite her mother?" laughed Sempaly.

"Invite her!--to the performance of course. I invite Tom, Dick, and Harry, and all the English parsons and all the foreign artists."

"And all their families. Fritzi, you are an admirable woman!" retorted Sempaly ironically.

"But the rehearsals are so perfectly intimate," she murmured. Time pressed however. "Well, have it so for all I care;" said the countess resignedly and next morning she paid a polite call on the Baroness Sterzl to request Zinka's assistance; and as she had as much tact as pride she had soon reconciled not only Zinka, but her sensitive thin-skinned brother, to the fact that the young girl had only been asked at the last moment and under the pressure of necessity to take part in the performance. Cecil did not altogether like the idea of displaying his pretty sister in a tableau and only consented because he did not like to deprive Zinka of the pleasure which she looked forward to with great delight. He adored the child and could refuse her nothing.

The evening of the festival arrived; the performances took place in a vast room almost lined with mirrors and lighted by wonderful Venetian chandeliers that hung from the decorated ceiling where frescoes were framed in tasteless gilt scroll work. In spite of its size the room was crowded; the most illustrious of the company sat in solitary dignity in the front row, and behind them was packed a fashionable but somewhat mixed crowd. Manly forms of consummate elegance were squeezed against the walls, and the assembly sparkled like a sea of sheeny silks and glittering jewels. Princess Vulpini, who was helping the countess to do the honors, hovered on the margin, graceful and kindly, but a little pale and tired, and the countess herself reigned supreme in that regal dignity which she could so becomingly assume on fitting occasions. There were very few women who could wear a diamond coronet with such good grace as Fritzi Ilsenbergh--even her intractable cousin Sempaly did her that much justice.

The great success of the evening was not the little French play, in which Madame de Gandry and the all-accomplished Barillat made and parried their hits after the accepted methods of the Théatre Français; it was not the operetta, in which Mrs. Ferguson looked bewitchingly pretty and sang 'le Sentier convert' to admiration; it was not even the children's tableau, in which the little Vulpinis looked like a bunch of freshly-gathered roses; the great success of the evening was the tableau of Lady Jane Grey. Sterzl's face in this scene was a perfect tragedy, all the misery of an executioner who adores his victim was legible there. And Zinka!--gazing up to heaven with ecstatic pathos, her whole attitude expressive of sacred resignation and childlike awe, she was the very embodiment of the hapless and innocent being before whom the executioner lowers his gaze. A string quartet played the allegretto from Beethoven's seventh symphony and the melancholy music heightened the effect of the poetical tableau, thrilling the audience like a lullaby sung by angels to soothe the struggling, suffering human soul.

The whole artistic corps who had been invited from the Villa Medici, with the director at their head, unanimously decided that this performance far excelled all that had gone before, and Countess Ilsenbergh forgot in its success all the annoyance it had occasioned her. After the collection, which produced a magnificent sum, most of the company dispersed. Ilsenbergh, with his most feudal smile, expressed his thanks to all the performers in turn and presented elegant bouquets to the ladies. The entertainment lost its formal character and became a social gathering.

Zinka was sitting in a side room, surrounded by a host of young Romans and Frenchmen. As she was one of those rare natures who derive not the smallest satisfaction from the homage of men for whom they have no regard, she listened to their enthusiastic compliments with absolute indifference.

She had asked for an ice and Norina had offered it to her on his knees, remaining in that position to pour out a string of high-flown compliments. Zinka, unaccustomed to this Southern effusiveness, was remonstrating with some annoyance but without the slightest effect, when Sempaly came in and exclaimed in the abrupt tone he commonly used to younger men: "Get up, Norina, do you not see that your devotion is not appreciated."

The prince rose with a scowl, Sempaly drew a seat to Zinka's side and in five minutes had, as usual, entirely monopolized her.

"My cousin the countess owes everything to you," he said in his most musical tones; "you saved the whole thing. I detest all amateur performances, but that tableau of Lady Jane Grey was really beautiful."

"I liked the French play very much. Madame de Gandry's acting was full of spirit."

"Bah! I have had more than enough of such spirit."

"Indeed!" laughed she, "it seems to me that you are suffering from general weariness of life. You are blasé."

"What do you understand by being blasé?" he asked.

"Why, that exhaustion of heart and soul which comes of the fatigue produced by a life of perpetual enjoyment; it is I believe an essential element in the character of a man of fashion."

"Something between a malady and an affectation," remarked Sempaly.

"Just so; in short, to be blasé is the heartsickness of a fop."

Sempaly glanced at her keenly. "Your definition is admirable," he said, "I will make a note of it; but the cap does not fit me. I am not blasé, I am not indifferent to anything. Shams, hypocrisy, and meretriciousness irritate me, but when I meet with anything really good or lovely or genuine I can recognize it and admire it--more perhaps than most men."

Meanwhile the winner of the musical prize from the Villa Medici had sat down to the piano and plunged straightway out of a maundering improvisation into a waltz by Strauss. The countess had no objection if they liked to dance, and several couples were soon spinning under the flaring candles.

Sempaly rose: "May I have the honor?" he said to Zinka, and they went together into the dancing-room.

Zinka had the pretty peculiarity of turning pale rather than red as she danced; her movements were not sprightly, but gliding and dreamy; in fact she waltzed with uncommon grace. Sempaly had long since lost the subaltern's delight in a dance; he only asked ladies who had some special interest or charm for him, and every one knew it.

"Hm!" said Siegburg, shaking his head as he went up to General von Klinger who was watching the graceful couple from a recess, "my little game has come to nothing it seems to me."

"Have you retired then?" asked the general.

"By no means--quite the contrary; but my chances are small enough at present I fancy; what do you say?" He looked straight into the old man's eyes; he understood and said nothing.

"She dances beautifully, I never saw a girl dance better. How well she holds her head," he murmured. Suddenly a flash of amusement lighted up his eyes. "Look at Fritzi's face!" he exclaimed: "What a horrified expression! a perfect Niobe."

CHAPTER VI.

Sempaly's intimacy with the Sterzls grew daily; he did the honors of Rome to Zinka, and dined with them as a fourth two or three times a week. After the tableaux at the Ilsenberghs' Zinka was asked everywhere; all the men were at her feet, and all the ladies wanted to learn her songs. The men she treated with the utmost indifference and to the ladies she was always obliging, particularly to those whom no one else would take the pains to be civil to, all of which greatly added to her popularity. Truyn's little girl--a spoilt, shy thing, who quarrelled with her maid three times a week regularly and insisted on learning everything from Latin to water-color drawing, though she would submit to no teacher but her father, perfectly worshipped Zinka and to her was as docile as a lamb. Princess Vulpini was delighted at her influence on her little niece and declared that Zinka was a real treasure; and Lady Julia Ellis, who had made the young girl's acquaintance two years since at Meran, was proud to take her out. Whenever the baroness could not go the English lady was always ready to chaperon Zinka, and when Lady Julia was 'at home' Zinka had to help her to receive her guests and to make tea.

Countess Schalingen, a Canoness devoted to painting, full of sentimentality and romance, whose ideas had not yet got beyond Winterhalter, called Zinka 'quite delicious,' took her on excursions, dragged her to all the curiosity-dealers, and finally painted her portrait on a handscreen for Princess Vulpini--her head and shoulders in gauzy drapery coming out of a lily. Before the end of a fortnight a rich American had enquired about her rank and extraction, and the handsome Crespigny had learnt all about her fortune. Norina paid his court to her when his tyrant's back was turned and Mrs. Ferguson did her the honor of being madly jealous.

But all this did not turn her head, it did not seem even to astonish her; she had always been spoilt and wherever she had gone she had found friends and admirers. When people were kind to her she was delighted, but she would have been much more astonished if they had not been kind. Sempaly had called her "a Botticelli," but the word was only applicable to her mind; in appearance she had none of the ascetic grace of the pre-Raphaelites. She was more like the crayon figures of Latour, or that typical beauty of the eighteenth century, la Lamballe. She had not the bloom of pink and white, but was pale, even in her youthful freshness with soft shadows under her eyes; and her hair, which was thick and waved naturally had reddish lights in the brown. A tender down softened its outline on her temples without shading her forehead, and gave her face a look of peculiar innocence. She was slight but not angular, her arms were long and thin, her hands small and sometimes red. Her moods varied between dreamy thoughtfulness and saucy high spirits, her gait was usually free and light but occasionally a little awkward, "like an angel with its wings clipped," Sempaly said. She had a low veiled voice in speaking that reminded one of the vibrating tones of an Amati violin. She was as wild as a boy, as graceful as a water nixie, and as innocent as a child--with the crude innocence of a girl who has been brought up chiefly by men--and all her ideas had the stamp of dreamy seclusion and fervid sentiment.

She had had French and English governesses and had even been to school in a convent for a year; still, the ruling influence in her life had been that of her guardian. General Sterzl--an eccentric being with an intense horror of sentimental school-friendships and of the conventional propriety that comes of too early familiarity with the world. It was to him that Zinka owed the one good word which Countess Ilsenbergh spoke in her favor:

"One thing must be admitted; she is not affected, she is as natural as one of our own girls."

"Poor Coralie!" the baroness would frequently exclaim, "what a pity that she is not here; what a treat it would be for her!"

"Yes," Sterzl would answer in his dry way, "she was in too great a hurry." And the baroness would cast her eyes up to heaven.

Coralie was her eldest and favorite daughter. Disappointed in her love of some hard-hearted gentleman she had renounced the vanities of the world some three years since, but--like her mother's worthy daughter--even in the depth of her disappointment and despair she had taken care to choose a convent where the recluses were divided into ladies and sisters, where the children who came to school there played hide and seek under a French name, and where being a boarder was called being en pension.