Wilhelmine found herself standing beyond the moat, with the iron gate leading to the castle courtyard grimly closed upon her. It was a perplexing moment; she knew not whither she might seek shelter, and she wished to avoid scandal as far as possible. The Duke had gone to Urach to inspect the coverts for the autumn hunting, and he would not return for several days. Madame de Ruth was in the castle, unconscious of the stirring events of the morning. Stafforth had accompanied the Duke, and she knew Madame de Stafforth would not receive her if she made known the cause of her departure from the castle. She realised, with dismay, that when she went to the d.u.c.h.ess she had, naturally, not taken money with her, so that she could not even seek the shelter of an inn. It was an awkward predicament, and yet so ridiculous to this woman, certain of the Duke-ruler's homage, that she laughed gently to herself as she walked slowly away through the castle gardens towards the town. The air was still and heavy, and the sound of cries and traffic from the market-place came to her distinctly. To her right lay the Duke's Jagerhaus and the kennels, from whence came an occasional bark from some of Eberhard Ludwig's numerous hounds.

Where should she go? The question was becoming urgent, for the heat of midday approached and already her head ached dully. She walked on, hardly noticing that she had pa.s.sed beyond the garden gate, and it was with a start that she suddenly realised she had wandered to an unfamiliar part of the town. She was in a narrow street, where the overhanging higher stories of the houses approached each other so closely that the sky between them seemed to be but a distant blue streak. Instinctively she had turned into this shaded gangway to escape from the burning sun. To her horror she felt a curious weakness creeping over her, a booming sounded in her ears, and the veins of her throat seemed to have swelled as though the blood would burst through the skin. She put up her hand to the velvet ribbon which she wore round her neck, and her fingers pulled awkwardly, impatiently, impotently at it. She felt as if her eyeb.a.l.l.s were pushed violently outwards by clumsy, heavy finger-tips. She leaned against the wall of one of the houses, and, with the idea of avoidance of scandal still working numbly in her brain, she turned her head this way and that to see if there were any observers of her pitiful plight; but the street lay to right and left, sordid, silent, and deserted. She reflected that, of course, the inhabitants must be sheltering from the heat--sleeping, perhaps--Ah! sleeping!--and she was so tired, so deathly weary--and her feet were so heavy--so far away--and heavy----

Surely Monsieur Gabriel would be pleased with that melody? Wilhelmine turned towards him, then half-consciousness returning told her she was not in Gustrow. Where was she? She moved, tried to sit up; on her brow a hand, cool and soothing, pressed her backwards, closing her aching eyes.

Once more her thoughts sank downwards--flickered, as it were. What did it signify where she was, after all? Everything was far off. What scent was that? Wonderful! She drew it in to her lungs, and it seemed to fill her breast with fragrant freshness. With a sigh, she came back from some dim world and opened her eyes. A strange face bent over her and she stared wonderingly at it. Surely she was dreaming still, for it was the face of a picture she knew. Remembrance came, ere full consciousness grasped sway of her--Savonarola, the Monk of San Marco. She had seen a wood-cut portrait of the inspired fanatic in a book of Eberhard Ludwig's library.

She lay, scarcely returned from her unconsciousness, gazing at this face.

Yes, Savonarola! The powerful, broken brow, the small, piercing eyes, the rugged cheeks, the whole face dominated by the huge nose. Then full consciousness returned to her, and she saw that this was no fanatic genius, no monk of Italy, but an old woman with an extraordinary physiognomy, who was watching her with patient, kindly eyes. Wilhelmine sat up, pushing from her brow a cloth soaked in some essence, from whence came the delicious pungent scent which had recalled her from her trance.

'Where am I?' she asked.

'You are safe, and, I pray you, rest,' answered a hoa.r.s.e, weak voice.

'I thank you,' Wilhelmine said, 'I will rest; but, at least, tell me where I am and who you are?'

'I am the widow of Ishakar Ben Hazzim, and you fainted at my door, so I took you in.'

'A very Christian action from a Jew, and I thank you,' replied Wilhelmine haughtily. All the unreasoning hatred of the Jewish race lay in her withdrawal from even ordinary grat.i.tude towards the woman who had rescued her.

The face above her darkened, and the kind eyes changed to flickering pin-points of anger.

'Christian? Nay, girl; it is Christian to be cruel! Christian? G.o.d of my fathers! it is Christian to murder and oppress! Did you not hear that I told you I am the widow of Ishakar Ben Hazzim, the son of Israel? and in my house, when I have anointed your head with rare essences to cool you from your sun-faint, you insult me, and you owe me no affront!' There was a pride in the woman's manner which appealed to Wilhelmine.

'Indeed, I meant none, and I thank you for your courtesy,' she said, and smiled.

'Well, rest you then,' replied the Jewess in a mollified tone; and again silence fell between the two women.

'Why do Jews hate the Christians?' Wilhelmine asked, after some time. She was interested, for this was a new and surprising view; partly, too, she asked the question from lazy curiosity.

'Hate them? Would not you?' returned the woman harshly.

'Why should you?' the girl asked.

'Do you know anything of the story of our race, you who ask? No? Well, I will tell you. For centuries we have been outcasts, treated like beggars, like sc.u.m; for ages we have suffered for the acts of our ancestors of hundreds of generations past, and always the Christian has sought to profit by our misfortunes; and have we been credulous of their promises, they have returned us jibes and disdain.'

'But the Jews committed a terrible wrong,' Wilhelmine interrupted; 'they crucified the----'

'Crucified! crucified!' broke in the Jewess angrily, 'we are weary of the very word! We crucified Him as you hang rebels, and He happened to be a Charmer who inspired a new religion--yours! and for ever since you Christians who rant of pardon, tenderness, moderation, love of all the world--you have oppressed us with a vengeance so terrible, so relentless, that we in our turn have learnt to hate and contrive vengeance.'

'But can you?' Wilhelmine smiled mockingly.

'Ah! but wait! Some day we, who have no heritage--we shall inherit the earth!' The old Jewess's voice trailed, and into its muttered tones thrilled the accent of the mystic belief of race destiny which lives so strongly in the children of Israel. Wilhelmine, upon whom no hint of power, of fate, or of belief in the unknown, ever failed to work, listened with growing interest. She questioned the old crone, and succeeded in drawing from her a long and impa.s.sioned tirade upon the wrongs of the race of Israel.

No one could charm people as could Wilhelmine; her vitality, her sonorous voice, the quick sympathy which drew confidences from the most reserved--in fine, her magnetic force, made her, when she chose, the most irresistible of beings. And she exerted herself to exercise her attraction upon the Jewess, for her curiosity was thoroughly aroused, and also with her strange instinct for power she scented a possible use to her, if she could count upon the adherence of a silent, secret force like the Jews. The old Jewess told how her people were constantly in communication with their fellow Jews of every land; she said that one who did a service to a Jew was always sure of finding support from the whole race; and Wilhelmine's quick brain and vivid imagination wove a romantic web, herself the centre thereof, holding in one hand the power of Wirtemberg's court, and in the other the secret thread commanding the commercial enterprises undertaken by freed and grateful Israelites.

Romantic certainly, but very lucrative to the heroine of this self-woven romance!

'Well, Widow Hazzim,' she said at length, 'destiny has brought me to you.

Some day I may have power to help your race, will you vouch me grat.i.tude and support in return?' She spoke lightly, but her eyes were serious and watchful, and her hands gripped the essence-soaked kerchief which she had taken from her brow.

The Jewess laughed. 'Do us a service and you will see!' she answered.

At this moment the door, which led to some inner room, opened, and a boy appeared on the threshold.

'My great-nephew, lady,' said the Jewess; 'his mother is my niece. He can sing like the heavenly seraphim, and great beauty of body is his as well.' She whispered the last statement in that fatal whisper wherewith the aged often give conceited self-consciousness to children.

The boy advanced: graceful, perfect in line, glowing in his Jewish youthful beauty, which is usually over-bold, a trifle insolent and hard.

He approached Wilhelmine, and bent before her in a salute so ceremonious that it was at once strangely appealing from a child, and yet unctuous and unnatural. Wilhelmine gave him her hand and inquired his name.

'Joseph Suss Oppenheimer, musician,' he replied gravely.

'Indeed? Musician!' she said, laughing. 'Thy profession already fixed and ent.i.tled.'

'My father is a musician; he sings before courts, and I shall do the same,' he added proudly.

Wilhelmine laughed. The boy's calm a.s.surance of success pleased her, and his unusual beauty attracted her, as all personal comeliness invariably did.

'He knows what he wants, this Joseph Suss,' she said; 'and to know what one wants, to know it decidedly, is the first step to achievement. Grasp success firmly and it is yours!'

The boy looked at her, fascinated by her loveliness, dominated by her voice and the creed which she enunciated. The old Jewess sent the boy to fetch his guitar, and when he returned she desired him to sing for her guest's entertainment.

Joseph Suss, with the too precocious manner of the Jewish child, inquired with another elaborate bow if Wilhelmine would care to hear his voice.

She begged him to let her hear the seraphim sing. The boy caught the note of irony in her phrase; flushing deeply, he laid aside his guitar and would have run away had not Wilhelmine, with her easy self-indulgent kindness of heart to those who did not get in her way, called him back and propitiated him with smiling rea.s.surances. The boy seated himself near her and sang. His voice was deliciously fresh and clear, and Wilhelmine, delightedly, made him sing again and again till the child's repertory was exhausted. She praised him and fondled him, and taking from her breast a small jewelled pin, engraved with her initials, she fastened it in his coat.

'A remembrance, dear musician,' she said laughing. She was destined to see that jewel again after long years, when humiliation and defeat came to her, striking her down at the zenith of her brilliant career.

CHAPTER IX

'SHE COMES TO STAY THIS TIME'

EBERHARD LUDWIG stood before his dull d.u.c.h.ess, his eyes fixed on her heavy, handsome face with a look of such stern anger, that the unhappy woman felt herself to be a criminal before some harsh, implacable judge.

The phrases she had prepared in her mind during the two days since she had expelled her rival from the castle faded away, and seemed to falter from proud statements to a mere apology, an anxious pleading.

The Duke remained standing, one hand leant upon the back of a chair, the other hung at his side, and Johanna Elizabetha could see that his fingers were clenched and reclenched with such force that the knuckles showed bluey white; otherwise the man might have been made of stone and his eyes of metal, so motionless and rigid was the whole figure. He had entered her apartment, and had demanded in a voice of controlled pa.s.sion, deep with the effort he made to render it cold and courteous, 'Madame, where is your Highness's lady-in-waiting?'

She met the question with a tremulous torrent of words. 'I have dismissed Mademoiselle de Gravenitz. I required her services no longer; she did not please me; she has left the castle, probably the town. I do not know where she is.'

'I ask again, Madame la d.u.c.h.esse, whither you have sent Mademoiselle de Gravenitz? You must have been aware of her destination before you permitted a young lady to leave the shelter of our castle,' he said. And the d.u.c.h.ess replied by an angry outburst, a hailstorm of reproaches, before which Eberhard Ludwig remained silent, cold, rigidly self-contained. The d.u.c.h.ess paused; it was like beating one's hand against some adamantine barrier. She had the sensation that all she said, felt, suffered, pa.s.sed unnoticed; the man before her was waiting for information, that was all. It was intolerable, and the hopelessness of any pleading came to her.

'My husband,' she said in another tone, calm and cold as his, 'I have endured enough. I have the right to dismiss my lady-in-waiting if I think fit. I have done so, and the lady will not enter my apartments again, nor will she be admitted to any court festivities wherein I take part.' She turned away; her despairing consciousness of ultimate humiliation seemed to choke her, though her very defeat was transformed to a moral victory by her resigned dignity. The Duke moved forward. 'At least tell me what has occurred,' he said hurriedly. 'When I left you three days ago there was no word of any dispute. I thought I left peace,' he added in a puzzled tone.

The d.u.c.h.ess came towards him. She held out her hands in a gesture of appeal: 'Eberhard, be just to me! I bore it as long as I could, but that woman's presence was a daily torture to me. Have a mistress, if need be,'

this last bitterly, 'but at least do not cause her to be my companion. It is not fitting.' The blood rushed to the Duke's face. 'Mademoiselle de Gravenitz is fit to be the companion of saints, of angels!' he retorted angrily. 'She will return to court, I warn your Highness.' He turned abruptly and left the d.u.c.h.ess's apartment.

If the Duke, with the blindness of the enamoured, really had imagined peace to reign in his palace prior to his sojourn at Urach, on his return even love and anxiety could not hide the excitement and unrest which the departure of the favourite had caused in the castle of Stuttgart. Madame de Ruth, flinging etiquette to the winds, had met his Highness in the courtyard when he rode in from Urach, and had greeted him with the news of Wilhelmine's flight. The good lady was genuinely distressed, and had made unceasing search in the town, but naturally no one had thought of seeking in the Judenga.s.se behind the Leonards Kirche. Wilhelmine seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth, and there were not wanting murmurers among the d.u.c.h.ess's servitors who averred that witches had ever been able to vanish at will, and that probably 'the Gravenitzin' would return in the form of a black cat or a serpent, and suddenly change into a woman again when it suited her. They were all in a flutter of superst.i.tious excitement; and Maria the maid, who loved Wilhelmine, went about with reddened eyes, and was much questioned below stairs.

The Duke, on hearing the news from Madame de Ruth, had repaired immediately to the d.u.c.h.ess, but, as we have seen, he had extracted no information from the lady, she having none to give. When his Highness left the d.u.c.h.ess's apartment he stormed up to Madame de Ruth's dwelling-room, and after some deliberation summoned Forstner and charged him with the unpleasant duty of leading a search party which was supplied with a ducal warrant to enter all houses of every grade in Stuttgart.