A loud step roused the rapt enthusiast from her visions. The sacristan was passing through the church, extinguishing the candles which, meanwhile, had burned down in their sockets before the Madonna in the distant corner.
"I beg your pardon for disturbing you," he said; "but I wanted to close the church. There is plenty of time, however. Shall I leave a candle? It will be too dark; the lamp alone does not give sufficient light."
"I thank you," replied Freyer, more thoughtful than the countess, who, unable to control herself, remained on her knees with her face buried in her hands.
"I will lock the church when we leave it and bring you the key," Freyer added, and the sacristan was satisfied. The imperious high priest withdrew silently and modestly, that he might not disturb the prayers of the man whom he sentenced to death every week with such fury.
The lovers were again alone, but the door remained open. The shrill crowing of a cock suddenly echoed through the stillness from the yard of the neighboring parsonage. The countess started up. Her eyes were painfully dazzled by the light of the wax candle so close at hand. Before her, the face smeared with shining varnish, lay the wooden Christ, hard and cold in its carven bareness and rigidity. The pale-blue painted eyes gazed with the traditional mournfulness upon the ground.
"What startled you just now?" asked Freyer.
"I don't know whether it was a miracle or a shadow, which created the illusion, but I would have sworn that the statue moved its lids and looked at me."
"Be it what it might, it was still a miracle," said Freyer. "If the finger of God can paint the Saviour's eyes to the excited vision from the wave of blood set in motion by the pulsation of our hearts, or from the shadow cast by a smoking candle, is that any less wonderful than if the stiff lids had really moved?"
The countess breathed a long sigh of relief; "Yes, you are right. That is the power which, as you say, can do more than swell a human breast, it can make, for the yearning soul, a heart throb even in a Christ carved from wood. Even if what I have just experienced could have been done by lifeless matter, the power which brought us together was divine, and no one living could have resisted it. Lay aside your crown of thorns trustfully and without remorse, you have accomplished your mission, you have saved the soul for which God destined you, it was His will, and who among us could resist Him?"
Freyer raised the crown of thorns, which he still held, to his lips, kissed it, and laid it at the feet of the Pieta: "Lord, Thy will be done, in so far as it is Thy will. And if it is not, forgive the error."
"It is no error, I understand God's purpose better. He has sent me His image in you and given it to me in an attainable human form, that I may learn through it to do my duty to the prototype. To the feeble power of the novice in faith. He graciously adds an earthly guide. Oh, He is good and merciful!"
She raised Freyer from his knees: "Come, thou God-given one, that I may fulfil the sweetest duty ever imposed on any mortal, that of loving you and making you happy. God and His holy will be praised."
"And will you no longer grieve for the lost Christ?"
"No, for you were right. He is everywhere!"
"In God's name then, come and obey the impulse of your heart, even though I perish."
"Can you speak so to-day, Joseph?"
"To-day especially. Would you not just now have sworn to the truth of an illusion conjured up by a shadow? And were you not disappointed when the light came and the spell vanished? The time will come when you will see me, as you now do this wooden figure, in the light of commonplace reality, and then the nimbus will vanish and nothing will remain save the dross as here. Then your soul will turn away disenchanted and follow the vanished God to loftier heights."
"Or plunge into the depths," murmured the countess.
"I should not fear that, for then my mission would have been vain! No, my child, if I did not believe that I was appointed to save you I should have no excuse in my own eyes for what I am doing. But come, it is late, we must return home or our absence will occasion comment."
It was half-past nine o'clock. An elderly gentleman of distinguished aristocratic bearing was pacing impatiently to and fro.
The two sisters were standing helplessly in the doorway, deeply oppressed by the burden of so haughty a guest.
"If she would only come!" Sephi lamented in the utmost anxiety, for she dreaded the father for the daughter's sake. It was the old Prince von Prankenberg, and his bearing augured nothing good.
It seemed to these loyal souls a democratic impertinence on the part of fate that such a gentleman should be kept waiting, and the prince regarded it in precisely the same light. The good creatures would willingly have lent wings to the daughter for whom such a father was waiting. But what did it avail that the noble lord constantly quickened his pace as he walked to and fro, time and his unsuspicious daughter did not do the same. Prince Prankenberg had reached Ammergau at noon that day and waited in vain for the countess. On his arrival he had found the whole village in an uproar over the conflagration in the woods, and the countess and Herr Freyer, who had been seen walking together in that direction, were missing. At last the herder reported that they had been in the mountain pasture with him, and Ludwig Gross, on his return from directing the firemen in the futile effort to extinguish the flames, set off to inform the Countess Wildenau of her father's arrival. He had evidently failed to find her, for he ought to have returned long before. So the faithful women had been on coals of fire ever since. Andreas Gross had gone to the village to look for the absent ones, as if that could be of any service! Josepha was gazing sullenly through the window-panes at the prince, who had treated her as scornfully as if she were a common maid-servant, when she offered to show him the way to the countess' room, and answered: "People can't stay in such a hole!" Meanwhile night had closed in.
At last, coming from exactly the opposite direction, a couple approached whose appearance attracted the nobleman's attention. A female figure, bare-headed, with dishevelled hair and tattered, disordered garments, leaning apparently almost fainting on the arm of a tall, bearded man in a peasant's jacket. Could it--no, it was impossible, that could not be his daughter.
The unsuspecting pair came nearer. The lady, evidently exhausted, was really almost carried by her companion. It was too dark for the prince to see distinctly, but her head seemed to be resting on the peasant's breast. An interesting pair of lovers! But they drew nearer, the prince could not believe his eyes, it was his daughter, leaning on a peasant's arm. There was an involuntary cry of horror from both as Countess Wildenau stood face to face with her haughty father. The blood fairly congealed in Madeleine's veins, her cheeks blanched till their pallor glimmered through the gloom! Yet the habit of maintaining social forms did not desert her: "Oh, what a surprise! Good evening, Papa!"
Her soul had retreated to the inmost depths of her being, and she was but a puppet moving and speaking by rule.
Freyer raised his hat in a farewell salute.
"Are you going?" she said with an expressionless glance. "I suppose I cannot ask you to rest a little while? Farewell, Herr Freyer, and many thanks."
How strange! Did it not seem as if a cock crowed?
Freyer bowed silently and walked on, "Adieu!" said the prince without lifting his hat. For an instant he considered whether he could possibly offer his aim to a lady in such attire, but at last resolved to do so--she was his daughter, and this was not exactly the right moment to quarrel with her. So, struggling with his indignation and disgust, he escorted her, holding his arm very far out as though he might be soiled by the contact, through the house into her room. The Gross sisters, with trembling hands, brought in lights and hastily vanished. Madeleine von Wildenau stood in the centre of the room, like an automaton whose machinery had run down. The prince took a candle from the table and threw its light full upon her face. "Pardon me, I must ascertain whether this lady, who looks as if she had just jumped out of a gipsy-cart, is really my daughter? Yes, it is actually she!" he exclaimed in a tone intended to be humorous, but which was merely brutal. "So I find the Countess Wildenau in this guise--ragged, worn, with neither hat nor gloves, wandering about with peasants! It is incredible!"
The countess sank into a chair without a word. Her father's large, stern features were flushed with a wrath which he could scarcely control.
"Have you gone out of fashion so completely that you must seek your society in such circles as these, ma fille? Could no cavalier be found to escort the Countess Wildenau that she must strike up an intimacy with one of the comedians in the Passion Play?"
"An intimacy? Papa, this is an insult!" exclaimed the countess angrily, for though it was true, she felt that on his lips and in his meaning it was such! Again a cock crowed at this unwonted hour.
"Well ma chere, when a lady is caught half embraced by such a man, the inference is inevitable."
"Dear me, I was so exhausted that I could scarcely stand," replied the countess, softly, as if the cocks might hear: "We were caught by the storm and the man was obliged to support me. I should think, however, that the Countess Wildenau's position was too high for such suspicions."
"Well, well, I heard in Munich certain rumors about your long stay here which accorded admirably with the romantic personage who has just left you. My imaginative daughter always had strange fancies, and as you seem able to endure the peasant odor--I am somewhat more sensitive to it ..."
"Papa!" cried the countess, frantic with shame. "I beg you not to speak in that way of people whom I esteem."
"Aha!" said the prince with a short laugh, "Your anger speaks plainly enough. I will make no further allusion to these delicate relations."
The countess remained silent a moment, struggling with her emotions. Should she confess all--should she betray the mystery of the "God in man?" Reveal it to this frivolous, prosaic man from whose mockery, even in her childhood, she had carefully concealed every nobler feeling--disclose to him her most sacred possession, the miracle of her life? No, it would be desecration. "I have no delicate relations! I scarcely know these people--I am interested in this Freyer as the representative of the Christ--he is nothing more to me."
The cede crowed for the third time.
"What was that? I am continually hearing cocks crow to-night. Did you hear nothing?" asked the countess.
"Not the slightest sound! Have you hallucinations?" asked the prince: "The cocks are all asleep at this hour."
She knew it--the sound was but the echo of her own conscience. She thought of the words Freyer had uttered that day upon the mountain, and his large eyes gazed mournfully, yet forgivingly at her. Now she knew why Peter was pardoned! He would not suffer the God in whom he could not force men to believe to be profaned--so he concealed Him in his heart. He knew that the bond which united him to Christ and the work which he was appointed to do for Him was greater than the cheap martyrdom of an acknowledgment of Him to the dull ears of a handful of men and maid-servants! It was no lie when he said: "I know not the man"--for he really did not know the Christ whom they meant. He was denying--not Christ, but the criminal, whom they believed Him to be. It was the same with the countess. She was not ashamed of the man she loved, only of the person her father saw in him and, as she could not explain to the prince what Joseph Freyer was to her, she denied him entirely. But even as Peter mourned as a heavy sin the brief moment in which he faithlessly separated from his beloved Master, she, too, now felt a keen pang, as though a wound was bleeding in her heart, and tears streamed from her eyes.
"You are nervous, ma fille! It isn't worth while. Tears for the sake of that worthy villager?" said the prince, with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. "Listen, ma chere, I believe it would be better for you to marry."
"Papa!" exclaimed the countess indignantly.
The prince laughed: "No offence, when women like you begin to be sentimental--it is time for them to marry! You were widowed too young--it was a misfortune for you."
"A misfortune? May God forgive you the sneer and me the words--it was a misfortune that Wildenau lived so long--nay more: that I ever became his wife, and you, Papa, ought never to remind me of it."
"Why not?"
"Because I might forget that you are my father--as you forget it when you sold me to that greybeard?"
"Sold? What an expression, chere enfant! Is this the result of your study of peasant life here? I congratulate you on the enlargement of your vocabulary. This is the gratitude of a daughter for whom the most brilliant match in the whole circle of aristocratic families was selected."
"And her soul sold in exchange," the countess interrupted; "for that my moral nature was not utterly destroyed is no credit of yours."
The prince smiled with an air of calm superiority: "Capital! Moral nature destroyed! When a girl is wedded to one of the oldest members of the German nobility and made the possession of a yearly income of half a million! That is what she calls moral destruction and an outrageous deed, of which the inhuman father must not remind his daughter without forfeiting his paternal rights. It is positively delicious!" He laughed and drew out his cigar case: "You see, ma fille--I understand a jest. Will you be annoyed if I smoke a Havana in this rural bed-room?"
"As you please!" replied the countess, who had now regained her former cold composure, holding the candle to him. The prince scanned her features with the searching gaze of a connoisseur as she thus stood before him illumined by the ruddy glow. "You have lost a little of your freshness, my child, but you are still beautiful--still charming. I admit that Wildenau was rather too old for a poetic nature like yours--but there is still time to compensate for it. When were you born? A father ought not to ask his daughter's age--but the Almanach de Gotha tells the story. You must be now--stop! You were not quite seventeen when you married Wildenau--you were married nine years--you have been a widow two--that makes you twenty-eight. There is still time, but--not much to lose! I am saying this to you in a mother's place, my child"--he added, with a repulsive affectation of tenderness. His daughter made no reply.
"It is true, you will lose your income if you give up the name of Wildenau--as the will reads 'exchange it for another.' This somewhat restricts your choice, for you can resign this colossal dower only in favor of a match which can partially supply your loss."
The countess turned deadly pale. "That is the curse Wildenau hurled upon me from his grave. It was not enough that I was miserable during his life, no--I must not be happy even after his death."
"Why--who has told you so? You have your choice among any of the handsome and wealthy men who can offer you an equivalent for all that you resign. Prince von Metten-Barnheim, for instance! He is a visionary, it is true--"
"Prosaic Prince Emil a visionary!" said the countess, laughing bitterly.
"Well, I think that a man who surrounds himself so much with plebeian society, scholars and authors, might properly be termed a visionary! When his father dies, the luckless country will be ruled by loud-voiced professors. What does that matter! He'll suit you all the better, as you are half a scholar yourself. True, it might be said that the Barnheim family is of inferior rank to ours--the Prankenbergs are an older race and from the days of Charlemagne have not made a single mesalliance, while the Barnheim genealogical tree shows several gaps--which explains their liberal tendencies. Such things always betray themselves. Yet on the other hand, they are reigning dukes, and we a decaying race--so it is tolerably equal. You are interested in him--so decide at last and marry him, then you will be a happy woman and the curse of the will can have no power."
"Indeed?" cried the countess, trembling with excitement. "But suppose that I loved another, a poor man, whom I could not wed unless I possessed some property of my own, however small, and the will made me a beggar the moment I gave him my hand--what then? Should I not have a right to hate the jealous despot and the man who sacrificed me to his selfish interests--even though he was my own father?" A glance of the keenest reproach fell upon the prince.
He was startled by this outburst of passion, hitherto unknown in his experience of this apathetic woman. He could make no use of her present mood. Biting off a leaf from his cigar, he blew it into the air with a graceful movement of the lips. Some change had taken place in Madeleine, that was evident! If, after all, she should commit some folly--make a love-match? But with whom? Again the scene he had witnessed that evening rose before his mind! She had let her head rest on the shoulder of a common peasant--that could not be denied, he had seen it with his own eyes. Did such a delusion really exist? A woman of her temperament was incomprehensible--she would be quite capable, in a moment of enthusiasm, of throwing her whole splendid fortune away and giving society an unparalleled spectacle. Who could tell what ideas such a "lunatic" might take into her head. And yet--who could prevent it? No one had any power over her--least of all he himself, who could not even threaten her with disinheritance, since it was long since he had possessed anything he could call his own. An old gambler, perpetually struggling with debt, who had come that day, that very day, to--nay, he was reluctant to confess it to himself. And he had already irritated his daughter, his last refuge, the only support which still kept his head above water, more than was wise or prudent--he dared not venture farther.
He had the suppressed brutality of all violent natures which cannot have their own way, are not masters of their passions and their circumstances, and hence are constantly placed in the false position of being compelled to ask the aid of others!
After having busied himself a sufficiently long time with his cigar, he said in a soothing and--for so imperious a man--repulsively submissive tone: "Well, ma fille, there is an expedient for that case also. If you loved a man who was too poor to maintain an establishment suitable for you--you might do the one thing without forfeiting the other--Wildenau's will mentions only a change of name: you might marry secretly--keep his name and with it his property."
"Papa!" exclaimed the countess--a burning blush crimsoned her cheeks, but her eyes were fixed with intense anxiety upon the speaker--"I could not expect that from a husband whom I esteemed and loved."
"Why not? If he could offer you no maintenance, he could not ask you to sacrifice yours! Surely it would be enough if you gave him yourself."
"If he would accept me under such conditions,"' she answered, thoughtfully.
"Aha--we are on the right track!" the prince reflected, watching her keenly. "As soon as he perceived that there was no other possibility of making you his--certainly! A woman like you can persuade a man to do anything. I don't wish to be indiscreet, but, ma fille--I fear that you have made a choice of which you cannot help being ashamed. Could you think of forming such an alliance except in secret. If, that is, you must wed? What would the world say when rumor whispered: 'Countess Wildenau has sunk so low that she'--I dare not utter the word, from the fear of offending you."
The countess sat with downcast eyes.
The world--! It suddenly stood before her with its mocking faces. Should she expose her sacred love to its derision? Should she force the noble simple-mannered man who was the salvation of her soul to play a ridiculous part in the eyes of society, as the husband of the Countess Wildenau? Her father was right--though from very different motives. Could this secret which was too beautiful, too holy, to be confided to her own father--endure the contact of the world?
"But how could a secret marriage be arranged?" she asked, with feigned indifference.
Prince von Prankenberg was startled by the earnestness of the question. Had matters gone so far? Caution was requisite here. Energetic opposition could only produce the opposite result, perhaps a public scandal. He reflected a moment while apparently toiling to puff rings of smoke into the air, as if the world contained no task more important. His daughter's eyes rested on him with suspicious keenness. At last he seemed to have formed his plan.
"A secret marriage? Why, that is an easy matter for a woman of your wealth and independent position! Is the person in question a Catholic?"
Madeleine silently nodded assent.
"Well--then the matter is perfectly simple. Follow the example of Manzoni's promessi sposi, with whom we are sufficiently tormented while studying Italian. Go with your chosen husband to the pastor and declare before him, in the presence of two witnesses, who can easily be found among your faithful servants, that you take each other in marriage. According to the rite of the Catholic church, it is sufficient to constitute a valid marriage, if both parties make this declaration, even without the marriage ceremonial, in the presence of an ordained priest--your ordained priest in this case would be our old pastor at Prankenberg. You can play the farce best there. You will thus need no papers, no special license, which might betray you, and if you manage cleverly you will succeed in persuading the decrepit old man not to enter the marriage in the church register. Then let any one come and say that you are married! There will be absolutely no proof--and when the old pastor dies the matter will go down to the grave with him! You will choose witnesses on whom you can depend. What risk can there be?"
"Father! But will that be a marriage?" cried the countess in horror.
"Not according to our ideas," said the prince, laconically: "But the point is merely that he shall consider himself married, and that he shall be bound--not you?"
"Father--I will not play such a farce!" She turned away with loathing.
"If you are in earnest--there will be no farce, ma chere! It will rest entirely with you whether you regard yourself as married or not. In the former case you will have the pleasant consciousness of a moral act without its troublesome consequences--can go on a journey after the pseudo wedding, roam through foreign lands with a reliable maid, and then return perhaps with one or two 'adopted' children, whom, as a philanthropist, you will educate and no one can discover anything. The anonymous husband may be installed by the Countess Wildenau under some title on one of her distant estates, and the marriage will be as happy as any--only less prosaic! But you will thus spare yourself an endless scandal in the eyes of society, keep your pastoral dream, and yet remain the wealthy and powerful Countess Wildenau. Is not that more sensible than in Heaven knows what rhapsody to sacrifice honor, position, wealth, and--your old father?"
"My father?" asked the countess, who had struggled with the most contradictory emotions while listening to the words of the prince.
"Why yes"--he busied himself again with his cigar, which he was now obliged to exchange for another, "You know, chere enfant, the duties of our position impose claims upon families of princely rank, which, unfortunately, my finances no longer allow me to meet. I--h'm--I find myself compelled--unpleasant as it is--to appeal to my daughter's kindness--may I use one of these soap dishes as an ash-receiver? So I have come to ask whether, for the sake of our ancient name--I expect no childish sentimentality--whether you could help me with an additional sum of some fifty thousand marks annually, and ninety thousand to be paid at once--otherwise nothing is left for me--a light, please--merci--except to put a bullet through my head!" He paused to light the fresh cigar. The countess clasped her hands in terror.
"Good Heavens, Papa! Are the sums Wildenau gave you already exhausted?"
"What do you mean--can a Prince Prankenberg live on an income of fifty thousand marks? If I had not been so economical, and we did not live in the quiet German style, I could not have managed to make such a trifle hold out so long!"
"A trifle! Then I was sold so cheaply?" cried Madeleine Wildenau with passionate emotion. "I have not even, in return for my wasted life, the consciousness of having saved my father? Yes, yes, if this is true--I am no longer free to choose! I shall remain to the end of my days the slave of my dead husband, and must steal the happiness for which I long like forbidden fruit. You have chosen the moment for this communication well--it must be true! You have destroyed the first blossom of my life, and now, when it would fain put forth one last bud, you blight that, too."
The prince rose. "I regret having caused you any embarrassment by my affairs. As I said, you are your own mistress. If I did not put a bullet through my head long ago, it was purely out of consideration for you, that the world might not say: 'Prince von Prankenberg shot himself on account of financial embarrassment because his wealthy daughter would not aid him!' I wished to save you this scandal--that is why I gave you the choice of helping me if you preferred to do so."
The countess shuddered. "You know that such threats are not needed! If I wept, it was not for the sake of the paltry money, but all the unfortunate circumstances. How can I ever be happy, even in a secret marriage, if I am constantly compelled to dread discovery for my father's sake? If it were for a father impoverished by misfortune, the tears shed for my sacrifice of happiness would be worthy of execration--but, Papa, to be compelled to sacrifice the holiest feeling that ever thrilled a human heart for gambling, race-courses, and the women of doubtful reputation who consume your property--that is hard indeed!"
"Spare your words, ma fille, I am not disposed to purchase your help at the cost of a lecture. Either you will relieve me from my embarrassments without reproaches, or you will be the daughter of a suicide--what is the use of all this philosophizing? A lofty unsullied name is a costly article! Make your choice. I for my own part set little value on life. I am old, a victim to the gout, have grown too stiff to ride or enjoy sport of any kind, have lost my luck with women--there is nothing left but gambling. If I must give that up, too, then rogue la galere! In such a case, there are but two paths--corriger la fortune--or die. But a Prankenberg would rather die &an to take the former."
"Father! What are you saying! Alas, that matters have gone so far! Woe betide a society that dismisses an old man from its round of pleasures so bankrupt in every object, every dignity, that no alternative remains save suicide or cheating at the gaming-table--unless he happens, by chance, to have a wealthy daughter!"
"My beloved child!" said the prince, who now found it advisable to adopt a tone of pathos.
"Pray, say no more, Father. You have never troubled yourself about your daughter, have never been a father to me--if you had, you would not now stand before me so miserable, so poor in happiness. This is past change. Alas, that I cannot love and respect my father as I ought--that I cannot do what I am about to do more gladly. Yet I am none the less ready to fulfill my duties towards you. So far as lies in my power, I will afford you the possibility of continuing your pitiful life of shams, and leave it to your discretion how far you draw upon my income. It is fortunate that you came in time--in a few days it might have been too late. I see now that I must not give up my large income so long as my father needs the money. My dreams of a late, but pure happiness are shattered! You will understand that one needs time to recover from such a blow and pardon my painful excitement."
She rose, with pallid face and trembling limbs: "I will place the papers necessary to raise the money in your hands early to-morrow morning, and you will forget this painful scene sooner than I."
"You have paid me few compliments--but I shall bear no malice--you are nervous to-day, my fair daughter. And even if you do not bestow your aid in the most generous way, nevertheless you help me. Let me kiss your liberal hand! Ah, it is exactly like your mother's. When I think that those slender, delicate fingers have been laid in the coarse fist of Heaven knows what plebeian, I think great credit is due me--"
"Do not go on!" interrupted the countess, imperiously. "I think I have done my duty, Papa--but the measure is full, and I earnestly entreat you to let me rest to-day."
"It is the fate of fathers to let their daughters rule them," replied the prince in a jesting tone. "Well, it is better to be ill-treated by a daughter than by a sweetheart. You see I, too, have some moral impulses, since I have been in your strict society. May the father whom you judge so harshly be permitted to kiss your forehead?"
The countess silently submitted--but a shudder ran through her frame as if the touch had defiled her. She felt that it was the Judas kiss of the world, not the caress of a father.
The prince wiped his mouth with a sensation of secret disgust. "Who knows what lips have touched that brow today?" He dared not think of it, or it would make him ill.
"Ma chere, however deeply I am indebted to you, I must assert my paternal rights a few minutes. You have said so many bitter things, whose justice I will not deny, that you will permit me to utter a few truthful words also." Fixing his eyes upon her with a stern, cold gaze, he said in a low tone, placing a marked emphasis on every word: "We have carried matters very far--you and I--the last of the ancient Prankenberg race! A pretty pair! the father a bankrupt, and the daughter--on the eve of marrying a peasant."
Madeleine von Wildenau, deadly pale, stood leaning with compressed lips on the back of her armchair.
The prince laid his hand on her shoulder. "We may both say that to-day each has saved the other! This is my reparation for the humiliating role fate has forced upon me in your presence. Am I not right? Good-night, my queenly daughter--and I hope you bear me no ill-will."
