There was alarm in the Wildenau Palace. The countess had suddenly returned, without notifying the servants--in plain words, without asking the servants' permission. She had intended to remain absent several months--they were not prepared, had nothing ready, nothing cleaned, not even a single room in her suite of apartments heated.
She seemed absent-minded, went to her rooms at once, and locked herself in. Then her bell rang violently--the servants who were consulting together below scattered, the maids darted up the main staircase, the men up a side flight.
"I want the coachman, Martin!" was the unexpected order.
"Martin isn't here," the footman ventured to answer--"as we did not know ..."
"Then send for him!" replied the countess imperiously. She did not appear even to notice the implied reproof. Then she permitted the attendant to make a fire on the hearth, for it was a raw, damp day in early spring, and after her stay in Cannes, the weather seemed like Siberia.
Half an hour elapsed. Meanwhile the maids were unpacking, and the countess was arranging a quantity of letters she had brought with her. They were all numbered, and of ancient date. Among them was one from Freyer, written four weeks previously, containing only the words:
"Even in death, Josepha has filled a mother's place to our child--she has rested in the chapel with him since this morning. I think you will not object to her being buried there.
"Joseph."
The countess again glanced at the letter, her eyes rested on the errors in orthography. Such tragical information, with so terrible a reproach between the lines--and the effect--a ludicrous one! She would gladly have effaced the mistakes in order not to be ashamed of having given this man so important a part in the drama of her life--but they stood there with the distinctness of a boy's unpractised hand. A man who could not even write correctly! She had not noticed it before, he wrote rarely and always very briefly--or had she possessed no eyes for his faults at that time? Yes, she must have been blind, utterly blind. She had not answered the letter. Now she tore it up and threw it into the fire. Josepha's death would have been a deliverance to her, had she not a few weeks later received another letter which she now read once more, panting for breath. But, however frequently she perused its contents, she found only that old Martin entreated her to return--Josepha had "blabbed."
That one word in the stiff hand of the faithful old servant, which looked as if it might have been scrawled with a match upon paper redolent of the odors of the stable, had so startled the countess that she left Cannes by the first train, and traveled day and night to reach home. A nervous restlessness made the sheet tremble in her hand as she thrust it into the flames. Then she paced restlessly to and fro. Martin was keeping her waiting so long.
A little supper had been hurriedly prepared and was now served. But the countess scarcely touched the food and, complaining that the dining-room was cold, crept back to her boudoir. At last, about half past nine, Martin was announced. He had gone to bed and they had been obliged to rouse him.
"Is Your Highness going out?" asked the footman, who could not understand the summons to Martin.
"If I am, you will receive orders for the carriage," replied his mistress, and a flash from her eyes silenced the servant. "Let Martin come in!" she added in a harsh, imperious tone.
The man opened the door.
"You are dismissed for to-night. The lights can be put out," she added.
Martin stood, hat in hand, awaiting his mistress' commands. A few minutes passed, then the countess noiselessly went to the door to see that the adjoining rooms were empty and that no one was listening. When she returned she drew the heavy curtains over the door to deaden every sound. Then her self-control gave way and rushing to the old coachman she grasped his hand. "Martin, for Heaven's sake, what has happened?"
Tears glittered in Martin's eyes, as he saw his mistress' alarm, and he took her trembling hands as gently as if they were the reins of a fiery blooded horse, on which a curb has been placed for the first time. "Ho--ho--dear Countess, only keep quiet, quiet," he said in the soothing tones used to his frightened steeds: "All is not lost! I didn't let myself be caught, and there's no proof of what Josepha blabbed."
"So they tried to catch you? Tell me"--she was trembling--"how did they come to you?"
"Well," said Martin clumsily, "this is how it was. They seem to have driven Josepha into a corner. At her funeral the cook told me that just before she died, two strangers came to the house and had a long conversation with the sick woman. When the hare she was ordered to cook was done, she carried it up. But the people in the room were talking so loud that she didn't dare go in and stood at the door listening. Something was said about the countess' favor and a crime, and Josepha was terribly excited. Suddenly she heard nothing more, Josepha stammered a few unintelligible words, and the gentlemen came out with faces as red as fire. They left the hare in the lurch--and off they went. Josepha died the same night. Then I thought they might be the Barons von Wildenau, because their coachman had often tried to pump me about our countess, and I said to myself, 'now I'll do the same to him.' And sure enough I found out that the gentlemen had gone away, and where? To Prankenberg!"
The countess turned pale and sank into an arm-chair. "There, there--Your Highness, don't be troubled," Martin went on calmly--"that will do them no good, the church books don't lie open on the tavern tables like bills of fare, and the old pastor will not let everybody meddle with them."
"The old pastor?" cried the countess despairingly--"he is dead, and since my father, the prince, has grown weak-minded, the patronage has lapsed to the government. The new pastor has no motive for showing us any consideration."
"So the old pastor is dead? H'm, H'm!" Martin for the first time shook his head anxiously. "If one could only get a word from His Highness the Prince--just to find out whether the marriage was really entered in the record."
"Yes, if we knew that!"
Martin smiled with a somewhat embarrassed look. "I ventured to take a little liberty--and went--I thought I would try whether I could find out anything from him? Because His Highness--you remember--followed us to Prankenberg."
"Very true!" The countess nodded in the utmost excitement. "Well?"
"Alas!--it was useless! His Highness doesn't know anybody, can remember nothing. When you go over to-morrow, you will see that he can't live long. His Highness is perfectly childish. Then he got so excited that we thought he would lose his breath, and at last had to be put to bed. I could not help weeping when I saw it--such a stately gentleman--and now so helpless!"
The countess listened to this report with little interest. Her father had been nothing to her while he retained his mental faculties--now, in a condition of slow decay, he was merely a poor invalid, to whom she performed the usual filial duties.
"Go on, go on," she cried impatiently, "you are not telling the story in regular order. When did you see my father?"
"A week ago, after my talk with the gentlemen."
"That is the main thing--tell me about that."
"Why, it was this way: I was sitting quietly at the tavern one night, when Herr von Wildenau's coachman came to me again and said that his master wanted to talk with me about our bay mare with the staggers which he would like to harness with his bay. I was glad that we could get the mare off on him."
"Fie, Martin!"
"Why--if nobody tried to cheat, there wouldn't be any more horse-trading! So I told him I thought the countess would sell the mare--we had no mate for her and I would inform Your Highness. No, the gentleman would write directly to Her Highness--only I must go to them, they wanted to talk with me. Well--I went, and they shut all the doors and pulled the curtains over them, just as your Highness did, and then they began on the bay and promised me a big fee, if I would get her cheap for them. Every coachman takes a fee," the old man added in an embarrassed tone, "it's the custom--you won't be vexed, Countess--so I made myself a bit important and pretended that it depended entirely on me, and I would make Her Highness so dissatisfied with the mare that she would be glad to get rid of her cheap, and--all the rest of the things we coachmen say! So the gentlemen thought because I bargained with them about one thing, I would about another. But that was quite different from a horse-trade, and my employers are no animals to be sold, so they found that they had come to the wrong person. If I would make a little extra money by getting rid of a poor animal, which we had long wanted to sell, I'm not the rascal to take thousands from anybody to deprive my employers of house and home. And the poor old Prince, who can no longer help himself, would perhaps be left to starve in his old age. No, the gentlemen were mistaken in old Martin, they don't know what it is"--tears were streaming down the old man's wrinkled cheeks--"to put such a little princess on a horse for the first time and place the reins in her tiny hands."
"Please go on Martin," said the countess gently, scarcely able to exert any better control over herself. "What did they offer you?"
"A great deal of money, if I would bear witness in court that you were married."
"Ah!"--the terrified woman covered her face with her hands.
"There--there, Countess," said Martin, soothingly. "I haven't finished! Hold your head up. Your Highness, I beg you, this is no time to be faint-hearted, we must be on the watch and keep the reins well in hand, that they may not get the start of us."
"Yes, yes! Go on!"
"Well, they tried to catch me napping. They knew everything, and I had been a witness of the wedding at Prankenberg!"
"Good Heavens!" The countess seemed paralyzed.
Martin laughed. "But I didn't let myself be caught--I looked as stupid as if I couldn't bridle a horse, and had never heard of any wedding in all my days except our Princess' marriage to the late Count. Of course I was at the church then, with all the other servants. Then the gentlemen muttered something in French--and asked what wages I had, and when I told them, they said they were too low for such rich employers, and began to make me offers till they reached fifty thousand marks, if I would state what they wanted. Yes, and then they told me you were capable of marrying two men and meant to take the duke as well as the steward, and they didn't want to have such a crime in the family--so I must help them prevent it. But this didn't move me at all, and I said: 'That's no concern of mine; my mistress knows what to do!' So off I went, and left the gentlemen staring like balky horses when they don't want to pass anything. Then I went to the Prince, and as I could learn nothing there, I knew of no other way than to write to Your Highness. I hope you'll pardon the liberty."
"Oh, Martin, you trusty old servant! Your simple loyalty shames me; but I fear that your sacrifice is useless--they know all, Martin, nothing can save me."
Martin smiled craftily into the bottom of his hat, as if it was the source of his wisdom, "I think just this: If the gentlemen do know everything, they have got to prove it, for Josepha is dead, and if they had found the information they wanted at Prankenberg, they needn't offer so much money for my testimony!"
The countess pressed her hand upon her head: "I don't know, I can't think any more. Oh, Martin, how shall I thank you? If the stroke of the pen which will give you the fifty thousand marks you scorned to receive from the Wildenaus can repay you--take it, but I shall still be your debtor." She hurriedly wrote a few words. "There is a check for fifty thousand marks, cash it early to-morrow morning. Don't delay an hour, any day may be the last that I shall have anything to give. Take it quickly."
But Martin shook his head. "Why, what is Your Highness thinking of? I don't want to be paid, like a bribed witness, for doing only my duty. There would have been no credit in refusing the money, if I took it afterward from Your Highness. No, I thank you most humbly--but I can't do it."
The countess was deeply ashamed. "But if I lose my property, Martin, if they begin a law-suit--I can no longer reward your fidelity. Have you considered that everything can be taken from me if they succeed in proving that I am married?"
Martin nodded: "Yes, yes, I know our late master's will. I believe he was jealous and wanted to prevent the countess from marrying again. But you needn't be troubled about me, I've saved enough to buy a little home which, in case of need, might shelter the countess and Herr Freyer, too. I have had it all from you!" Martin's broad face beamed with joy at the thought.
"Martin!"--she could say no more. Martin did not know what had happened--surely the skies would fall--the countess had sunk upon his breast, the broad old breast in which throbbed such a stupid, honest heart! He stood as motionless as a post or the pile of a bridge, to which a drowning person clings. But, during all the sixty-five years his honest heart had beat under the Prankenberg livery, it had never throbbed so violently as at this moment. His little princess! She was in his arms again as in the days when he placed her in the saddle for the first time. Then she wept and clung to him whenever the horse made a spring, but he held her firmly and she felt safe in his care--now she again wept and clung to him in helpless terror--but now she was a stately woman who had outgrown his protection!
"There--there, Countess," he said, soothingly. "God will help you. Go to rest. You are wearied by the long journey. To-morrow you will see everything with very different eyes. And, as I said before, if all the ropes break--then you will find lodging with old Martin. You always liked peasants' fare. Don't you remember how you used to slip in to the coachman's little room and shared my bread and cheese till the governess found it out and spoiled our fun? Yes, yes, bread and cheese were forbidden dainties, and yet they were God's gift which even the poorest might enjoy. You must remember the coachman's little room and how they tasted! Well, we haven't gone so far yet, and Your Highness' friends will not suffer it. Yet, if matters ever did come to that, I believe Your Highness would rather accept a home from me than from any of these noblemen."
"You may be right there!" said the countess, with a thoughtful nod.
"May God guard Your Highness from either.--Has Your Highness any farther orders?"
"Yes, my good Martin. Go early to-morrow morning to the Prince--or rather the Duke of Metten-Barnheim--and ask him to call on me at ten o'clock."
"Alas--the duke went to shoot black cock this morning--I suppose he didn't know that Your Highness was coming?"
"Certainly not How long will he be away?"
"Till the end of the week, his coachman told me."
"This too!" She stood in helpless despair.
"The coachman said that His Highness was going to Castle
Sternbach--perhaps Your Highness might telegraph there!"
"Yes, my good old friend--you are right!" And with eager haste she wrote a telegram. "There it is, Martin, it will reach him somewhere!"
And she remembered the message despatched nine years before, after the Passion Play, to the man whom she was now recalling as her last support. At that time she informed him that she should stay in Ammergau and let the roses awaiting her at home wither--now she remained at home and let the roses that bloomed for her in Ammergau languish.
The coachman, as if reading the mute language of her features and the bitter expression of her compressed lips, asked timidly: "I suppose Your Highness will not drive to the Griess."
"No!" she said, so curtly and hastily that it cut short any farther words.
For the first time a shadow flitted over honest Martin's face. Sadly, almost reproachfully, he wished his beloved mistress "a good night's rest," and stumbled wearily out. It had hurt him,--but "the last thing he had discovered," he did not venture, out of respect to his employer, to express even to himself.
