“So do I, and I shall begin by taking the bull by the horns. Your arm is not dislocated nor even sprained. You have fought a duel, like the hothead you are, and your arm is wounded by either a sabre or sword-cut.”

  “Well, my little sister, that is exactly what I wanted to tell you. I did fight a duel — for political reasons. And I did get a sabre cut in my arm, but it was a friendly sabre, very neatly and prettily applied. It is not dangerous, no artery or nerve severed. But the story will be in all the papers; it has made noise enough already. Now we must prevent both grandmamma and Emma from seeing the newspapers.”

  “The only paper taken here is the ‘Kreuz Zeitung.’“

  “Which is precisely the one that will say the most.”

  “What are you smiling at?”

  “I can’t help thinking of the face of the man who will have to supply the details!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. I was only talking to myself, and when I say things to myself they are not worth repeating aloud. The question is — to keep an eye on the ‘Kreuz Zeitung.’“

  “Certainly I will keep an eye on it.”

  “Then I need not trouble any more about it?”

  “When I tell you that I will see to it myself!”

  “Very well! We will talk about something else.”

  “About anything you like.”

  “Do you recollect meeting a young Frenchman at Herr Fellner’s, an artist, a painter?”

  “Monsieur Benedict Turpin? I should think so! A charming man who makes the most rapid sketches, and though they are flattering, they are still likenesses.”

  “Oh! come, come! You are quite enthusiastic.”

  “I can show you one he did of me. He has given me a pair of wings, and I really look like an angel!”

  “Then he is clever?”

  “Enormously clever.”

  “And witty.”

  “He can certainly give you as good as you gave. You should have seen how he routed some of our bankers when they tried to chaff him. He spoke better German than they did.”

  “Is he rich as well?”

  “So they say.”

  “It also seems as if there were remarkable affinities between his character and that of a little girl I know.”

  “But who? I don’t understand.”

  “Nevertheless, it is some one you know. He appears to be capricious, imaginative, vivacious; he adores travelling, is an excellent rider, and a good sportsman, either on foot or horseback, all which coincides admirably with the tastes of a certain ‘Diana Vernon.’“

  “I thought that was what you always called me.”

  “So it is. Do you recognize my portrait?”

  “Not at all, not in the least. I am gentle, calm, collected. I like travelling, yes. But where have I been? To Paris, Berlin, Vienna, London, and that is all, I love horses, but what do I ever ride except my poor little Gretchen?”

  “She has nearly killed you twice over!”

  “Poor thing! it was my own fault. As for shooting, I have never held a gun, and as for coursing, I have never started a hare.”

  “True, but why not? Only because the grandmother objected. If you could have had your own way — ”

  “Oh, yes! It would be glorious to rush against the wind, to feel it blowing through one’s hair. There is great pleasure in rapid motion, a feeling of life which one finds in nothing else.”

  “So you would like to be able to do these things which you don’t do.”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “With Monsieur Benedict?”

  “Why Monsieur Benedict more than any one else?”

  “Because he is more charming than most.”

  “I do not think so.”

  “Really?”

  “No.”

  “Then; supposing you were allowed to choose a husband out of all my friends, you would not choose M. Benedict?”

  “I should never dream of doing so.”

  “Now, little sister, you know I am an obstinate man, who likes to understand, things. How is it that a man, young, handsome, rich, talented, courageous, and imaginative, fails to interest you, particularly when he has both the good qualities and the defects of your own character?”

  “What am I to say? I do not know, I cannot analyse my feelings. Some people are sympathetic to me, some indifferent, some downright disagreeable!”

  “Well, you don’t class Monsieur Benedict among the disagreeable, I hope.”

  “No, but among the indifferents.”

  “And why among the indifferents?”

  “Monsieur Benedict is of medium height, I like tall men: he is fair, I like dark men. He is volatile, I like serious people. He is bold, always rushing off to the ends of the world; he would be the husband of other men’s wives, and not even the lover of his own.”

  “Let us resume. What sort of man, then, must he be that would please you?”

  “Somebody just the opposite of M. Benedict.”

  “He must be tall.”

  “Yes.”

  “Dark?”

  “Either dark or dark chestnut.”

  “Grave.”

  “Grave, or at least, serious. Also brave, steady, loyal, and — ”

  “Just so. Do you know that you have described, word for word, my friend, Karl von Freyberg?”

  Helen blushed crimson, and moved quickly, as if to leave the room, but Frederic, disregarding his wound, caught her hand and made her sit down again. The light from between the curtains irradiated her face like the sunlight falling on a flower. He looked at her intently.

  “Well, yes,” she said, “but no one knows but you.”

  “Not Karl himself?”

  “He may have some idea.”

  “Well, little sister,” said Frederic, “I see no great harm in all this. Come and kiss me, and we will talk again another time.”

  “But how comes it,” exclaimed Helen, with vexation, “that you know all you want to know, although I have told you nothing at all?”

  “Because one can see through a crystal which is pure. Dear little Helen, Karl von Freyberg is my best friend, he has all I could wish in a brother-in-law, or that you could desire in a husband. If he loves you as much as you seem to love him, there should be no great difficulty about your becoming his wife.”

  “Ah! dear Frederic,” said Helen, shaking her pretty head, “but I once heard a Frenchwoman say that the marriages which present no difficulties are just those which never come off!”

  And she retired to her own room, wondering no doubt as to what difficulties Destiny could interpose to the completion of her own marriage.

  CHAPTER XIII

  COUNT KARL VON FREYBERG

  In the days of Charles V the Austrian Empire dominated for a period both Europe and America, both the East and the West Indies. From the summit of the Dalmatian mountains Austria beheld the rising of the sun, from the chain of the Andes she could watch his setting. When the last ray of sunset sank in the west, the first light of dawn was reappearing in the east. Her empire was greater than that of Alexander, of Augustus, of Charlemagne.

  But this empire has been torn by the devouring hands of Time. And the champion by whom the armour of this colossus, piece by piece, has been rent away, is France.

  France took — for herself — Flanders, the Duchy of Bar, Burgundy, Alsace, and Lorraine. For the grandson of Louis XIV she took Spain, the two Indies, and the islands. For the son of Philip V she took Naples and Sicily. She also took the Netherlands and made two separate kingdoms of them, Belgium and Holland, and, finally, she tore away Lombardy and Venetia, and gave them to Italy. And to-day the boundaries of this empire, upon which, three hundred years ago, the sun never set, are, in the west, Tyrol; in the east, Moldavia; to the north, Prussia; to the south, Turkey.

  Every one knows that, strictly speaking, there is no Austria, properly so called, only a dukedom of Austria, with nine to ten millions of inhabitants, of which Vienna is the capital. And it was a duke of Austria who imprisoned Richard Céur-de-Lion on his return from Palestine, and only released him on payment of a ransom of two hundred and fifty thousand gold crowns.

  The map-space now occupied by Austria, outside the actual dukedom, its kernel, consists of Bohemia, Hungary, Illyria, the Tyrol, Moravia, Silesia, the Sclavonian district of Croatia, the Vaivody of Servia, the Banat, Transylvania, Galicia, Dalmatia, and Styria.

  We do not count four to five millions of Roumanians scattered throughout Hungary, and on the banks of the Danube. Every one of the above districts has its own character, its own customs, language, costume, frontier. Especially the dwellers in Styria, composed of Norica and the ancient Pannonia, have retained their own language, costume, and primitive customs. Before it became included in Austria, Styria had its own separate history and nobility, dating from the time when it was known as the march of Styria, about 1030. And from that epoch Karl von Freyberg dated his ancestry, remaining a great noble at a time when great nobles are becoming rare.

  He was a handsome young man of about twenty-seven, tall, straight, slight, flexible as a cane, and equally tough. His fine black hair was cut close, and he had beneath black eyebrows and eyelashes, those dark grey eyes which Homer attributes to Minerva and which shine like emeralds. His complexion was sunburnt, for he had hunted since childhood. He had small hands and feet, unwearied limbs, and prodigious strength. In his own mountains he had hunted bear, wild goat, and chamois. But he had never attacked the first of these animals with any weapon except lance or dagger.

  He was now a captain in the Lichtenstein Hussars, and, even in barracks, was always followed by two Tyrolean chasseurs dressed in the national costume. While the one carried out an order the other remained at hand, so that there might be always some one to whom his master might say “Go and do this.” Although they understood German he always spoke to them in their own tongue. They were serfs, understanding nothing about enfranchisement, who considered that he had absolute power of life and death over them, and although he had several times tried to explain matters, telling them they were free to go where they chose, they had simply refused either to believe or to listen.

  Three years before, during a chamois hunt, one of his keepers lost his footing. He fell down a precipice, and was dashed to pieces. Karl ordered his steward to pay the widow an annuity. She thanked him, but was quite unable to understand that he owed her anything merely because her husband had been killed in his service.

  When there was a hunt — and he who writes this had twice the honour to be of the party — whether in his own country or not, Karl always wore his national costume and very picturesque it was.

  The count’s two attendants never left him. They were loaders. When Karl had fired, he dropped his gun on the ground and another ready loaded was instantly slipped into his hand.

  Whilst waiting for the beaters to be placed, which generally took half an hour, the two chasseurs drew from their game-bags small Tyrolean flutes made of reeds, on which they played, sometimes together, sometimes alone, but always joining again after a certain number of bars, Styrian airs, melancholy, but sweet and plaintive. This lasted some minutes, then, as if drawn by the music, the count in his turn produced a similar flute and put it to his lips. He now took up the melody, the others only played accompaniments, which I think must have been improvised — so original were they. It seemed as if the accompaniments pursued the air, overtook it, and then turned around it like creepers or tendrils. Then the air reappeared, charming, but always sad, and reaching notes so high that one would have thought only silver or glass could produce them. Then a gun was heard, that of the chief beater, announcing that all was ready. The three flutes vanished inside the game-bags, the musicians took their guns and again became hunters, ear and eye strained to the utmost.

  Count Karl knocked at eleven o’clock at Baron von Bélow’s door, having heard both of his return and his accident. Frederic received him with an unusually smiling countenance, but only offered his left hand.

  “Ah! then, it is true, is it? I have just read the ‘Kreuz Zeitung.’“

  “What have you read, my dear Karl?”

  “I read that you fought with a Frenchman and were wounded.”

  “Hush — not so loud. I am not wounded for the family, only dislocated.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means, my dear fellow, that my wife won’t think she need inspect a sprained arm, but she would positively insist on examining a wounded one. Now she would die of fright over this wound, while I believe you would rather like to have it. Have you seen many wounds a foot long? I can show you one if you like.”

  “How so? A skilled fencer like you, who uses his sabre as if he had invented it!”

  “None the less, I found my master.”

  “A Frenchman?”

  “A Frenchman.”

  “Well, instead of hunting wild boar in the Taunus to-morrow, as I intended, I should like to go and hunt your Frenchman, and bring back one of his paws to replace your wounded one.”

  “Don’t do anything of the kind, my dear friend, you might easily only bring back a nice little cut like this of mine. Besides, the Frenchman is now my friend, and I want him to be yours also.”

  “Never! A rascal who has cut your arm open — how far? A foot, did you say?”

  “He might have killed me. He did not. He might have cut me in two, and he only gave me this wound. We embraced on the battlefield. Did you see the other details?”

  “What other details?”

  “Those concerning his other duel, with Herr George Kleist.”

  “Superficially. I don’t know him, I only cared about you. I did see that your Frenchman had damaged the jaw of some man who writes articles in the ‘Kreuz Zeitung.’ He seems to have quarrelled with two professions, since he chooses to encounter an officer and a journalist on the same day.”

  “He did not choose us, we were foolish enough to choose him. We pursued him to Hanover, where he was very comfortable. Probably he was annoyed by being disturbed. So he sent me home with my arm in a sling, and dismissed Herr Kleist with a black eye.”

  “Is the fellow a Hercules?”

  “Not at all, it is curious. He is a head shorter than you, but formed like Alfred de Musset’s Hassan, whose mother made him small in order to turn him out perfect.”

  “And so you embraced on the battlefield?”

  “Better still. I have an idea.”

  “What is it?”

  “He is a Frenchman as you know.”

  “Of good family?”

  “Dear friend, they are all of good family since the Revolution. But he is clever — very.”

  “As a fencing master?”

  “Not at all, as an artist. Kaulbach says he is the hope of the present school. He is young.”

  “Young?”

  “Yes, twenty-five or six at most, and handsome.”

  “Handsome as well?”

  “Charming. An income of twelve thousand francs.”

  “A trifle.”

  “Not everybody has two hundred thousand, like you, my dear friend. Twelve thousand francs and a fine talent might mean fifty or sixty thousand.”

  “But why in the world do you consider all this?”

  “I should like him to marry Helen.”

  The count nearly sprang out of his chair.

  “What! Let him marry Helen! your sister-in-law! A Frenchman!”

  “Well, is she not herself partly of French origin?”

  “I am sure Mademoiselle Helen loves you too much to be willing to marry a man who has wounded you like this. I hope she refused?”

  “She did.”

  The count breathed again.

  “But what the deuce put such an idea into your head as to marry him to your sister?”

  “She is only my sister-in-law.”

  “That does not matter. What an idea to think of marrying one’s sister-in-law to the first person picked up on the high road!”

  “I assure you this young man is not just — ”

  “Never mind! She refused, did she not? That is the chief thing.”

  “I hope to make her think better of it.”

  “You must be quite mad.”

  “But tell me, why should she refuse? Explain if you can! Unless, indeed, she cares for some one else.”

  The count blushed up to his eyes.

  “Do you think that quite impossible?” he stammered.

  “No, but then if she should love someone else, she must say so.”

  “Listen, Frederic, I cannot positively say that she loves some one else, but I can declare that some one else loves her.”

  “That is half the battle. Is it some one as good as my Frenchman?”

  “Ah! Frederic, you are so prejudiced in favour of your Frenchman. I dare not say yes.”

  “Then tell me at once. You see what might have happened had my Frenchman been here, and I had made any promise to him.”

  “Well, at any rate, you won’t turn me out for saying it. The some one is myself.”

  “Always modest, loyal, and true, dear Karl but — ”

  “But? I will have no ‘buts.’“

  “It is not a very terrible ‘but,’ as you will see. You are a great noble, Karl, compared to my little sister Helen.”

  “I am the last of my race, there is no one to make objections.”

  “And you are very rich for a dowry of two hundred thousand francs.”

  “I can dispose of my own fortune as I choose.”

  “These are observations I felt bound to make to you.”

  “Do you consider them really serious?”

  “I acknowledge objections to them would be much more so.”

  “Is it of no consequence to ascertain whether Helen loves me or not?”

  “That can be decided at once.”

  “How?”

  “I will send for her, the shortest explanations are always the best.”

  The count became as pale as he had been red the moment before. In a trembling voice he exclaimed:

  “Not now, for Heaven’s sake! not now!”

 

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