The Eichhofs: A Romance

"When I came to myself I heard talking and laughing in the next room. I could distinguish Möhâzy's voice and the laughter of the woman who had been the cause of our quarrel. I sprang up and rushed out of my chamber and down the stairs, not knowing what I did, possessed by the one thought that I must leave the house, that I would rather die than ever again set eyes upon the man who had deceived me so terribly.

"At the foot of the staircase I met Herr von Eichhof. My disordered appearance probably struck him, for he stood still and addressed me. My teeth chattered as in a fever-fit; instead of answering him, I covered my face with my hands and burst into tears.

"'You are in no condition to go out,' he said, taking my hand; and his voice sounded so kind and gentle that I let him detain me for an instant as he tried to persuade me to go up-stairs again.

"'It is your duty to stay with your husband,' he said, 'even although-'

"I extricated myself, and in an access of disgust and aversion the words escaped my lips, 'He is not my husband!'

"Herr von Eichhof started, then turned silently away, and ascended the stairs without turning once to look at me. I stared after him until he had vanished. I was not in his eyes worthy of another glance. I knew it, and I knew that his judgment would be echoed by every one. I left the house almost mechanically.

"Outside it was growing dark. I pulled a black lace shawl that I had on over my head and passed on quickly, without an aim, without a resolve, desiring nothing, caring for nothing except to leave the house that had so lately been my home.

"Suddenly I found myself on the shore. It was a lonely spot, and I heard the roar of the ocean and saw the moon rise out of it like a fiery red ball. I went on until the waves broke almost at my feet, and I thought how it would be best for me to go on and on thus until the waters rolled over my head. Then all would be over; the sea would look unchanged, and on shore no one would miss me. In my thoughts death seemed far easier and better than life. Suddenly two points of light gleamed on the water, – a dark shadow glided over the waves across the wake of the moon, and the tones of a woman's glorious voice singing fell upon my ear. It sang a song that I knew and loved; the voice seemed to allure my thoughts and take them captive. I listened first, and finally I sang too. I cannot understand now how such a thing was possible at such a moment, but I did it. Some inward impulse urged me to unite my voice with those lovely tones. Perhaps the people in the boat would remember my voice after it was silent forever. I would have liked to leave some kindly memory behind me. And as I sang I thought of my lonely childhood, my ruined and desolate youth, and unutterable compassion for myself overcame me, and as the song died away I burst into a flood of burning tears.

"I went back from the shore. Life can be thrown away when it is hated or despised, but not when it is pitied.

"The singer had ceased; but the sound of voices came to me across the water. I could distinguish no words, but it was the sound of kindly human speech, and I began to wonder if some voice might not speak tenderly to me at some future day; the world was so large, surely there was some quiet corner in it for me.

"I remembered to have heard that a famous songstress, who had retired from a public career on account of her health, and who devoted her powers to the training of other voices, was among the visitors at Trouville, and that I had also heard that she was to leave on the following morning.

"The thought occurred to me that it was her voice that had so attracted me, and with it came the determination to go to her, to tell her of my utter misery, and to beg her to grant me her protection. Her voice had called me back to life. I would ask her to decide my future fate. Perhaps she would employ me as her maid, perhaps she would think my voice worth training. I hurried on. There was still, then, a 'perhaps,' still a hope for me-"

Here the manuscript ended, and when Bernhard Eichhof had finished reading it he still held it in his hand, and his eyes were riveted upon the written page, as though it could afford him further intelligence. And yet he knew what must follow. He knew that Julutta's hopes were fulfilled, that she left Trouville with that same singer and came to Germany, where her distant cousin, Marzell Wronsky, met her beneath the roof of her protectress and married her.

At last he laid aside the sheets that she had given him at his visit of the morning, and sighed deeply. "Poor, poor creature!" he murmured. "I judged her too harshly; and she is so gentle, so humble to me in spite of the pain I have given her."

He remembered how pale and ill she had looked to-day. The event of the previous evening had evidently agitated and distressed her fearfully. And yet when Bernhard had offered to seek out Möhâzy, to induce him to pursue his journey immediately, she had not hastened to accept his aid.

"You must first know the story of my youth," she said, "and then decide whether I am worthy of your help. I could not trust myself to tell you this story; but if you will read it-since my marriage I have indulged the idle practice of keeping a diary, and that it might be complete I have prefaced it with my sad story. No human eye save my own was ever to rest upon these pages; but I make an exception in your case, because fate has already willed that you should have some knowledge of my secret."

In this wise had Bernhard come into possession of these pages. "Fate has dealt cruelly with her," he thought, "and I have added to its cruelty wherever I could. Oh, I have much to atone for!"

He paced his room to and fro in some agitation, then consulted the paper for the list of names of new arrivals, among which he had already seen Möhâzy's address, and, after re-reading it, tossed the paper aside and ordered his carriage.

Half an hour later a servant handed Herr von Möhâzy the Count's card. Herr von Möhâzy was wont to rise about noon, and was therefore still wrapped in his silken Turkish dressing-gown when his unexpected visitor was announced. As the visitor followed close upon his card, there was nothing for it but to prepare for his reception as best he might by tightening the silken cord and tassels around his waist.

"Excessively delighted to see you. Quite an unexpected honour," he called out, as Bernhard hastily entered the room and closed the door behind him; "but I must beg you to excuse this." And he indicated his brilliant habiliments.

"I have a very special reason for my visit, Herr von Möhâzy," Bernhard replied curtly, without accepting an offered seat. "You asked yesterday for a lady who is held in high esteem in society here. I know that you had certain relations with this lady, which, by a monstrous deceit, as you know, you-"

"Sir!"

"I am ready to answer for my words, – which relations you established by a monstrous deceit."

"I must pray you to use less violent language!"

"I must pray you to hear me out!" Bernhard said, in a raised voice, and with flashing eyes. "From what you said yesterday, I cannot but suppose that you intend to compromise this lady, and to destroy the peace of a happy home."

"Not an idea of anything of the kind," Herr von Möhâzy calmly remarked. But Bernhard had grown so eager in his part of chivalrous defender that he neither heard nor heeded.

"I am come to you now to give you an opportunity of leaving Berlin this very day, if you would not be so insulted by me as to make a hostile meeting between us inevitable."

Herr von Möhâzy was speechless for a moment, staring by turns at Bernhard's tall, threatening figure, as it stood between him and the door, and at a singular object which the young man had taken out as he spoke, and which strongly resembled a braided leather riding-whip. Bernhard's eyes were riveted upon him, and the singular object quivered meanwhile in his hand. But Herr von Möhâzy was not bewildered for longer than a second, and, putting the entire length of the table between Bernhard and himself, he suddenly threw back his head and burst into a fit of laughter.

"Delicious!" he cried. "But, my dear Herr von Eichhof, all this could have been arranged very much more comfortably. I think your Berlin so insupportably tedious that I should certainly have left it to-day or to-morrow, and because I find it all so tiresome, I thought it might possibly have amused me to see that lady again; although, I assure you, she is far too indifferent to me to make it worth while to run the risk of a bullet or a sabre-cut for a sight of her. I am rejoiced to learn that she has found so devoted a friend in you. I-ha! ha! – I-'tis so excellent a joke that it more than atones to me for not seeing her again. A thousand thanks, Herr von Eichhof!"

Bernhard had grown pale. He had not looked for this turn of affairs, and it was his part now to be bewildered for a moment.

"You are as coarse as you are cowardly," he ground out between his teeth, coming up to the table, whereat Herr von Möhâzy thought best to bluster a little.

"No need of such ugly words, sir," he said, with a forced smile.

"Will you leave Berlin to-day?" Bernhard insisted.

"Mais oui, mon cher; I see no reason why I should remain here."

"I should have no more difficulty in finding you to-morrow than to-day!" Bernhard exclaimed, with a glance of menace, as he turned towards the door.

Herr von Möhâzy came out from behind his table. "Oh, you have nothing further to fear!" he cried, as Bernhard opened the door. "I dislike to disturb the amusements of others. My remembrances to Frau Julutta Wronsky!" And he laughed once more.

Bernhard slammed the door behind him.

Julutta now had nothing to fear, and Bernhard and she had one more secret, one more memory, in common.

Herr von Möhâzy left Berlin the same day, and an hour later a note from Bernhard informed Frau von Wronsky that there was no reason why she should absent herself from the opera on the plea of illness, as she had resolved to do in case Möhâzy did not leave town.

She appeared in her box, and when Bernhard paid his respects to her between the acts he read in every glance of her fine eyes the gratitude that she could not otherwise express in her husband's presence.

Hugo von Hohenstein sat in Councillor Kohnheim's box opposite, and his opera-glass was scarcely, during the entr'acte, turned away from his vis-à-vis.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE CONSEQUENCES BEGIN TO APPEAR

Lothar was sitting in a rocking-chair by the window of his room in the officers' quarters and gazing after the blue rings of the smoke from his cigar. His thoughts were far, however, from being as placid as his attitude, and his eyes would now and then turn from the airy rings to various papers tossed in a confused heap upon his table. At last he threw away his cigar and took up these papers.

"Monstrous!" he muttered; "the man must be insane! How the deuce could I ever use one hundred marks' worth of soap and perfumes? The bill, to be sure, dates from last year. I can't prove that it's incorrect, but I believe it to be so. And here again, three hundred marks for gloves, – now that's an utter impossibility, – and the Berlin tailor insists, too, that he has never been paid. The scoundrels are rolling in the money they steal from the pockets of us poor lieutenants."

Then he remembered that he had the day before ordered another large supply of gloves and perfumery, for in that 'den of a garrison' there was nothing to be had fit to use. And for a moment he really reflected upon some method of regulating his finances. In fact, it was all a mere bagatelle not worth mentioning, but then the 'scoundrels' dunned so insolently, and it would really be refreshing to be rid of them all. Werner had relieved Lothar of his large gambling debt, and the latter had had a lucky evening at play shortly afterward, and had repaid his friend every farthing. What if he should have recourse to his friend in his brother's absence? But then the fellow was so priggish. He had lectured him when he went to pay him because he had won the money at cards. As if there were any positive harm in cards! To be sure, he had never played in Berlin, there were so many other ways of amusing one's self there. But here in this 'infernal den' what else was there to do but play cards, unless one was a tiresome bookworm like Werner? And from his vexation with his bills Lothar passed into quite a fit of irritation against Werner, and decided that he certainly would ask no new favour from him.

"Haberdasher, perfumer, tailor & Co. may wait," he decided. "Why in thunder did they let their bills run on so?"

A knock at the door interrupted his disagreeable reflections, and upon his "Come in," a very unexpected visitor appeared, – Hugo von Hohenstein. He had come to pass a few days in Rollin to superintend the alterations there, and would not go back to Berlin, he said, without "hunting up" his old friend and comrade. He laughed as he noticed the pile of bills upon the table.

"Why not follow my example?" he cried, tapping Lothar on the shoulder. "Marry a daughter of Israel with heaps of money. 'Tis the only salvation for a poor lieutenant, and a very delightful salvation besides, upon my honour! The young Baroness von Hohenstein, in spite of the née Kohnheim, is a model of high-bred elegance, and our apartments and our equipage are quite perfect. Oh, absolutely aristocratic, I can tell you! As for Rollin, I am turning it into an El-Dorado. You would hardly recognize it."

"What does your father say to it all?" asked Lothar, who with all his levity could hardly bring himself to treat his former comrade with the old genuine cordiality.