To this all were agreed, even Count Repuin, who was not sorry to be relieved from duty as Sorr's champion. Everything was taking the course he desired; his victim could no longer frequent this society; he was delivered over into the hands of his enemy.

Herr and Frau von Sorr had indeed left the ball-room before Arnim's last words. Their suburban dwelling was not far from the President's, it took scarcely a quarter of an hour to drive thither, but to Lucie the time appeared an eternity.

She leaned back among the cushions, whilst her husband looked out of the carriage window. Not a word did he address to his wife during the drive, nor did she once break the silence. She did not wish to question him to provoke an explanation, she would fain have avoided any such altogether. She knew nothing decided with regard to what had occurred at the President's. A few remarks, not intended for her ear, had hinted at a most disagreeable scene, in which her husband had been implicated, and in her anxiety she had applied to Adele for information. Her friend, however, had no time to impart this, for scarcely had Count Styrum conducted her to Lucie when Sorr made his appearance, stating that he was not well, and that he wished to leave immediately, without any formal adieux.

A few words only Adele had contrived to whisper into her friend's ear, few but significant. "Courage, dearest Lucie; remember, I am your devoted friend; trust me; whatever happens, I will stand by you."

What did these words mean? Lucie ran over in her mind the events of the evening, but found no explanation of them. Adele could not know how insulting had been Count Repuin's presumption, or how sharply he had been reproved. But if she did not know, she perhaps suspected it, and therefore had her championship of her friend been so eager.

Had the Count perhaps had a quarrel with her husband? They had returned to the ball-room together, the Count with his head carried haughtily, Sorr, on the contrary, with an air that seemed to Lucie to express profound despair. Just so pale and downcast had he looked on the day when he told her that the last remnant of his property had been lost at the gaming-table, and that not his money only, but also his honour would be sacrificed if he could not quickly find means to pay his gambling debts. He threatened to put a bullet through his head if Lucie did not sign a power of attorney that placed her maternal inheritance, her whole fortune, at his disposal. He had promised then never to play again, and to alter his whole manner of life.

Lucie had long known that he had broken his word, that he had played away her property also, and she only called this scene to mind now because he had the same air of utter despair that had characterized him on this evening when he had followed Repuin into the ball-room.

What had happened? Should she ask him? No! Whither could such questions lead? He had long ceased to tell her the truth; and even were he to do so, she might well wish it untold. Even to guess at the dark ways by which he maintained his position in society was misery enough. Why should she wish to know the terrible truth? He must have been playing again; Repuin had probably lost, and some quarrel had ensued, which---- No, she would pursue such thoughts no further. She trembled to think that her husband might have revelations to make to her that would rob her of the last remnant of her peace of mind.

The carriage stopped; Sorr got out, and, without troubling himself about his wife, unlocked the door and entered the house. She followed him, and they ascended the stairs in silence. In the anteroom he lighted the two candles left in readiness for them. When they returned from an evening entertainment it was his custom, after lighting the candles, to retire to his room with a curt "good-night," but this he did not do. "I have something to say to you," he said, handing Lucie one of the candles. "I will go with you into the drawing-room."

She made no reply; her hand trembled as she took the light. She had a foreboding that a crisis in her destiny was at hand; that the communication which Sorr was about to make to her would be momentous both for her and for him.

He went first. In the drawing-room he placed the light upon the table, and then sank upon the sofa as if exhausted. He sat for a long time in silence, his head resting on his hand, his looks bent on the ground.

Lucie did not disturb him, but remained standing by the table in front of the sofa, silently watching him, marking the convulsive twitching of his lips, the terrible change in his countenance. She saw the struggle going on within him.

At last he seemed to have come to a determination. He looked up, but when he saw Lucie's dark eyes fixed searchingly upon him he instantly averted his own. He sprang up from the sofa and paced the room with hurried, irregular strides, pausing at last before his wife. He tried to look at her, but he could not meet her eye. It was inexpressibly difficult to speak the first word. He longed to have her question him, that he might reply, but Lucie was silent. He felt her keen glance watching his every movement, and at last he could endure it no longer.

This must end,--this terrible silence was not to be borne; he must break it by some word, no matter what. "I am ruined!" he said.

"I know it; we have been so for a long while," was Lucie's reply, given with forced calmness.

"You deceive yourself. I am far worse off than you think. I have lost all,--everything! More than we ever possessed! I am overwhelmed with debt; we are on the brink of an abyss from which there is but one means of escape."

"We should have adopted it long since."

Sorr looked up in astonishment. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"That we must at last resign the life we have led hitherto. I have often, but always in vain, begged you to do so. Now necessity will force you to it, and if you really see this at last I shall bless this hour. By honest labour we can regain what we have lost. We have influential friends, by whose aid we can easily begin life anew in another city. You can procure some official position, and I will give lessons in music and drawing, or in French and English. With courage and determination we can easily achieve a secure independence."

"You are mad!"

This was all the reply that Sorr had for Lucie's words. Then he laughed aloud. "It is incredible," he said, more to himself than to her, "the wild ideas that will fill a woman's brain! An official post with a few hundred thalers of salary--too much to starve upon, too little to procure enough to eat! Tiresome work, from morning until night, and hectored by a superior officer, to whom one must cringe. Regarded askance by gentlemen. A pretty position! No, rather a bullet through my brains and the whole mummery at an end. No need to waste a word upon such nonsense. If I cannot live as I have been accustomed to live, I had rather not live at all. This is not the means of escape which I have to propose to you." He paused a moment; it was difficult to say what he had to, but he could delay no longer, and he continued, "We must separate, Lucie!"

"You forget that this is impossible," Lucie replied, forcing herself to speak calmly; "a Catholic marriage cannot be dissolved, or ours would have been so long ago."

"Nonsense! I am not talking of a divorce, which is of course impossible, but of a separation. I have a proposal to make to you; I know that at first it will seem odious to you; I do not like it myself, but upon calm reflection you will see that in it lies our only means of salvation. You must first know how matters stand with me, and this I will tell you in as few words as possible. Our need is such that in my despair I was induced to--to--it must out, there is no help for it--Count Styrum's pocket-book lay open before me, and I took from it a hundred-thaler note."

Lucie recoiled; incapable of uttering a word, she stared at her husband. A thief! No; for this she had not been prepared; this exceeded her worst forebodings,--a thief! And he could confess his shameful deed thus with cynical frankness; he did not even repent it; he was not crushed and despairing. Had he not just expressed his contempt for honest labour? A thief! And to this man she was bound by an indissoluble tie!

Sorr expected no answer; he had now gained the courage to speak; after the confession of the theft nothing was difficult, and he continued, "Well, yes, I could not resist the temptation; the pocket-book lay open before me; the opportunity was too tempting. I thought no one saw me, but I was wrong; Repuin saw it all. Our fate lies in his hand; if he speaks I shall be condemned as a thief, and you will share my dishonour. The wife of the thief who has escaped punishment only by voluntary death is an outcast from society. Your plan of honest labour would prove futile, for none would intrust their children's instruction to a woman at whom the world points the finger of scorn. You will sink into utter misery; that will be your fate, as mine will be to die by my own hand, if you refuse to accede to the proposal in which alone lies safety for us. It is in your power," the wretch continued, speaking rapidly and in a firmer tone, "to secure yourself a gay and joyous existence, free from care, and provided with every luxury that wealth can give, while you keep your conscience clear of the guilt of my death, for it will be your act that drives me to suicide if you refuse to accede to my proposal."

"And what do you ask of me?" Lucie inquired, in a low monotone.

"Count Repuin," Sorr began again, "is madly in love with you. You have hitherto treated him very badly, although you owed it to me to smile upon him, as I have often begged you to do. His love, however, has been only increased by your reserve. He is ready to make any sacrifice for you now. But if he is again repulsed he is resolved upon revenge; he will then be our deadly foe; he will ruin both you and me. You see what is before us. If, however, you consent to our separation. Count Repuin will take you to Italy, or whithersoever you wish to go. He will load you with the costliest gifts, every wish that you can frame will be fulfilled. You will insure yourself a most brilliant position and save my life. It would be worse than madness to say 'no.'"

Lucie's gaze was bent upon the ground. When her husband first began to speak such shameful words, she thought she could not endure life until he should have ended, but she summoned up all her strength of mind and succeeded in conquering the terrible pain that tortured her; she preserved an outward calm, while her heart seemed breaking with horror and indignation.

Sorr patiently awaited her answer. He thought she was considering his proposal, and that was a good sign. He had feared that she would indignantly reject it, give utterance to her detestation of the Russian, and overwhelm him with reproaches for having dared to suggest such a scheme, but nothing of all this had occurred; she had listened quietly. He had prepared himself to overpower her resistance with threats and entreaties, but there seemed to be no need for these. Since she was so calmly considering the matter she would certainly be reasonable in the end. He exulted in so easy and unlooked-for a victory.

At last she spoke: "You then desire that we should part? You yourself would now declare me released for life from every obligation that a wife owes to her husband? You distinctly consent to our separation, and declare that you have no longer any claim upon either my life or my fidelity. Answer me with a simple 'yes,' and I will consider whether to accept your proposal, but before I decide I must be free."

"If you accept my plan, it follows as a matter of course that you are entirely free by my desire," Sorr replied, who could not help thinking her demand rather ambiguous.

"I asked for a simple 'yes' or 'no,' without any 'if.' I must be free before I decide. Unless you say 'yes' unconditionally, I swear to you I will die before I yield to your wishes and part from you."

"Well, then, 'yes,'--you are free. But now be reasonable, Lucie; tell me what to say to Repuin; he expects me tomorrow morning by eight o'clock. I dare not go one minute later."

"I will consider; you shall have my reply before eight to-morrow."

"But, Lucie----"

"You must wait. I will not decide to-night."

"Well, then, as you will. To-morrow morning early. Good-night, Lucie."

He held out his hand, but she turned from him with loathing, and, without even looking at him, took up a candle and left the room. Sorr heard the door of her own room bolted behind her.

CHAPTER V.

The Hohenwalds by no means belong to the old German imperial n.o.bility.

It is said that in the forest-depths of the domain of a Saxon Prince his trusty huntsman saved the life of his lord from the furious onslaught of a wild boar, and that in grat.i.tude the Prince bestowed upon him the hunting castle where he had previously been overseer, and in memory of his bravery gave him the name of Hohenwald,[2] which gradually came to belong to the castle and the neighbouring village on the estate. The t.i.tle of Freiherr, or Baron, was bestowed much later by the Emperor. Baron Werner von Hohenwald, who distinguished himself as a colonel during the Thirty Years' War, was probably the first thus honoured, and the founder of the family of _von_ Hohenwalds.

This old colonel, who added much to the estate, not a large one originally, was pa.s.sionately devoted to the chase; he took up his abode in the old castle, surrounded on all sides by the forest, and his example was followed by all his successors, although such a residence by no means lightened the cares of the management of the extended estates of Hohenwald. The solitude of the forest had an irresistible attraction for the Hohenwalds, and although they had erected a comfortable grange near the village, they always occupied the castle.

Around the comparatively new grange were gathered the farm buildings and the dwellings for inspectors and other officials. The Hohenwalds thought nothing of the inconvenience of riding a couple of miles to reach the grange; they thought themselves amply compensated by the wonderful beauty of the site of the castle, buried in the depths of a magnificent forest. The love of solitude seemed inherrent in the Hohenwalds. If some among them had in their youth frequented the Court, of Dresden, they were sure to return finally to Castle Hohenwald, and none of them ever left it in summer. They had lavished so much money and taste in fitting it up for a home, that it would indeed have been difficult to find one more charming and desirable. The imperial colonel had first begun to improve and add to the old hunting-nest, and each of his successors had done his part in giving fresh beauty and grace to castle, to gardens, and even to the forest, a portion of which had been converted into a magnificent park. If they loved solitude, they were all the more determined to surround themselves in their solitude with every luxury that wealth could procure. Some of the rooms of the castle were furnished with princely splendour, especially those on the lower story, in which the present Freiherr Werner had been wont to a.s.semble frequent guests before his separation from his wife. The walls were hung with paintings by ill.u.s.trious masters;--the collection of pictures at Hohenwald, although for years it had been seen by none save the inmates of the castle, was accounted one of the best and largest in the country,--and the castle library exceeded many a public one in its treasures of literature.

The ground-floor of the castle was less gorgeously fitted up than was the first story. The present possessor, Freiherr Werner, had arranged it for himself, and he thought more of solid comfort than of superficial splendour. Nothing had been spared to make the rooms pleasant and comfortable, but the hangings and furniture-covers were not of silken damask, but of substantial woollen fabric, subdued in colour, suiting well with the dark oak wainscoting and furniture.

The Freiherr's favourite retreat was a large apartment, at one end of which lofty folding-doors of gla.s.s opened upon a terrace, whence a flight of steps led into the garden. As the castle crowned an eminence, from this terrace almost all the garden could be overlooked, as well as part of the road leading to the castle from the village of Hohenwald.

The garden-room, as it was called, was the dwelling-room of Freiherr Werner; he spent most of his time here, even in winter, and in summer, when the tall doors were thrown wide open, the view from them partly indemnified him for the loss of open-air exercise, from which he had now been debarred for some years.

Every morning he was pushed into this room in his rolling-chair from his bedroom, for his right foot was so lame from the gout that he could not walk. Here he a.s.sembled his family about him, here the daily meals were eaten, and only late in the evening was he rolled back again to his bedroom by his servant or by his son Arno. Every day he sat at the open doors, gazing out into the garden. In former years he had devoted much time to his garden; he was enthusiastically fond of flowers, but since the gout had confined him to his rolling-chair he had been forced to content himself with merely superintending the gardeners, to whom from time to time he would shout down his orders. It was but seldom that he could be taken out into the garden among his flowers, for the slightest motion occasioned him great pain.

On the afternoon of a lovely day in May the Freiherr was seated in his favourite spot, looking abroad into the garden, where his beloved flowers were budding gloriously, and delighting in their beauty and the mild air of spring. He was in the most contented of moods; his book was laid aside; he could read at any time; storms did not interfere with that. His keen gaze wandered with intense enjoyment from shrub to shrub; most of them he had planted himself, and his interest was unflagging in watching their daily development from bud to blossom.

If the a.s.sessor von Hahn could have seen the Freiherr at this moment he would hardly have recognized the gloomy misanthrope in this kindly old man with genial smile and gentle eyes; but the next moment the expression of the mobile features changed, the genial smile vanished, the brow was contracted in a frown, the dark eyes sparkled with irritation.