All around him seemed to reel as he pondered the missive in the bare little waiting-room by the light of a smoking lamp. The moisture stood in beads upon his forehead. For the first time a horrible thought occurred to him.

"An accident while hunting? What accident could possibly happen to a man hunting with a good breechloader----? If--yes, if--but that cannot be; he has never uttered a complaint!" He suddenly felt mortally ill and weak.

The servant shortly returned with a conveyance. Nor had he been able to learn anything that could be relied upon. Some one in the village had heard that there had been an accident somewhere in the vicinity, but whether it had resulted in death no one could tell.

The Count got into the vehicle, a half-open coach, smelling of damp leather and mould. The drive lasted for two hours. At first it was quite dark; nothing could be seen but two rays of light proceeding from the coach-lamps, which seemed to chase before them a ma.s.s of blackness.

Once the Count dozed, worn out with emotion and physical fatigue. He was roused by the fancy that something like a cold, moist wing brushed his cheek. He looked abroad; the darkness had become less dense, the dawn was breaking faintly above the slumbering earth. Everything appeared gray, shadowy, and ghost-like. A dog began to bark in the neighbouring village; there was a sound of swiftly-rolling wheels. The Count leaned forward and saw something vague and indistinct, preceded by two streaks of light flashing along a side-road.

It was only a carriage, but he shuddered as at something supernatural.

Everywhere he seemed to see signs and omens.

"Are we near Dobrotschau?" he asked the coachman.

"Almost there, your Excellency."

They drove through the village. A strange foreboding sound a.s.sailed the Count's ears,--the long-drawn whine of a dog,--and a weird, inexplicable noise like the flapping of the wings of some huge captive bird vainly striving to be free. The Count looked up. The outlines of the castle were indistinct in the twilight, and hanging from the tower, curling and swelling in the morning air, was something huge--black.

The carriage stopped. Martin came to the door, and, as he helped his former master to alight, informed him that the family had awaited the Count until past midnight, but that when the carriage returned empty from the railway-station they had retired. His Excellency's room was ready for him.

Not one word did he say of the cause of the Count's coming. He could not bring himself to speak of that. They silently ascended the staircase. Suddenly the Count paused. "It was while he was hunting?" he asked the servant, bluntly.

"Yes, your Excellency."

"When?"

"Very early yesterday morning."

"Were you with him?" The Count's voice was sharper.

"No, your Excellency; no one was with him. The Count went out alone."

There was an oppressive silence. The father had comprehended. He turned his back to the servant, and stood mute and motionless for a while.

"Take me to him," he ordered at last.

The man led the way down-stairs and through a long corridor, then opened a door. "Here, your Excellency!"

They had laid the dead in his own room, where he was to remain until the magnificent preparations for his burial should be completed. Here there was no pomp of mourning. He lay there peacefully, a cross clasped in his folded hands, a larger crucifix at the head of the bed, where two wax candles were burning--that was all.

The servant retired. Count Hans kneeled beside the body, and tried to pray. But this Catholic gentleman, who until a few years previously had ardently supported every ultramontane measure of the reigning family, now discovered, for the first time, that he no longer knew his Pater Noster by heart. He could not even pray for the dead. He was possessed by a kind of indignation against himself, and for the first time he felt utterly dissatisfied with his entire life. His eyes were riveted upon the face of his dead son. "Why, why did this have to be?--just this?"

His thoughts refused to dwell upon the horrible catastrophe; they turned away, wandering hither and thither; yesterday's hunting breakfast occurred to him; he thought of his witty speech and of the laughter it had provoked, laughter which even the host's frown could not suppress. The sound of his own voice rang in his ears: "Yes, gentlemen, let us drink to the marriage of the Golden Calf to the Chimera."

Then he recalled Lato upon his first steeple-chase, on horseback, in a scarlet coat, still lanky and awkward, but handsome as a picture, glowing with enjoyment, his hunting-whip lifted for a stroke.

His eyes were dry, his tongue was parched, a fever was burning in his veins, and at each breath he seemed to be lifting some ponderous weight. A feeling like the consciousness of a horrible crime oppressed him; he shivered, and suddenly dreaded being left there alone with the corpse, beside which he could neither weep nor pray.

Slowly through the windows the morning stole into the room, while the black flag continued to flap and rustle against the castle wall, like a prisoned bird aimlessly beating its wings against the bars of its cage, and the dog whined on.

CHAPTER XLIV.

SPRING.

A few days afterwards Lato's body was consigned to the family vault of the Treurenbergs,--not, of course, without much funereal pomp at Dobrotschau.

With him vanished the last descendant of an ancient race which had once been strong and influential, and which had preserved to the last its chivalric distinction.

The day after the catastrophe Harry received a letter from Paula, in which, on the plea of a dissimilarity of tastes and interests which would be fatal to happiness in marriage, she gave him back his troth.

As she remained at Dobrotschau for an entire week after the funeral, it may be presumed that she wished to give her former betrothed opportunity to remonstrate against his dismissal. But he took great care to avoid even a formal protest. A very courteous, very formal, very brief note, in which he expressed entire submission to her decree, was the only sign of life his former captor received from him.

When Paula Harfink learned that Harry had left Komaritz and had returned to his regiment in Vienna, she departed from Dobrotschau with her mother and sister, to pa.s.s several months at Nice.

In the beginning of January she returned with the Baroness Harfink to Vienna, heart-whole and with redoubled self-confidence. She was loud in her expressions of contempt for military men, especially for cavalry officers, a contempt in which even Arthur Schopenhauer could not have outdone her; she lived only for science and professors, a large number of whom she a.s.sembled about her, and among whom this young sultaness proposed with great caution and care to select one worthy to be raised to the dignity of her Prince-Consort.

Selina did not return with her mother to Vienna, but remained for the time being with a female companion in Nice. As is usual with most blondes, her widow's weeds became her well, and her luxuriant beauty with its dark c.r.a.pe background attracted a score of admirers, who, according to report, were not all doomed to languish hopelessly at her feet.

Fainacky, however, was never again received into favour.

Olga retired to a convent, partly to sever all ties with the world, which had misunderstood and maligned her in her relations to the part she had played in the fearful drama enacted at Dobrotschau, partly to do penance by her asceticism for Lato's suicide, which was to her deep religious sense a fearful crime, and of which she considered herself in some measure the cause.

Moreover, Lato's suicide produced a profound impression upon all his friends. Harry could hardly take any pleasure in his freedom, so dark was the shadow thrown upon his happiness by grief for the fate of his life-long friend and comrade. Under the circ.u.mstances, until, so to speak, the gra.s.s had grown over the terrible event, his betrothal to Zdena could not be thought of; the mere idea of it wounded his sense of delicacy. He contented himself, before returning to Vienna, with a farewell visit to Zirkow, when he informed the entire family of the sudden change in his position. The major, whose sense of delicacy was not so acute as his nephew's, could not refrain from smiling broadly and expressing a few sentiments not very flattering to Frulein Paula, nor from asking Harry one or two questions which caused the young fellow extreme confusion.

The major's efforts to force a _tte--tte_ upon the young people were quite vain. Zdena, when Harry left, accompanied the young officer openly, as she had often done, to the court-yard, where she stroked his horse before he mounted and fed him with sugar, as had ever been her wont.

"Good-bye, Zdena," Harry said, simply kissing her cold hand, just as he had often done when taking leave of her. Then, with his hand on the bridle, ready to mount, he gazed deep into her eyes and asked, "When may I come back again, Zdena?"

She replied, "In the spring," in a voice so low and trembling that it echoed through his soul, long after he had left her, like a caress. He nodded, swung himself into the saddle, turned once in the gate-way for a farewell look at her, and was gone. She stood looking after him until the sound of his horse's hoofs died away, then went back to the house and remained invisible in her room for the rest of the forenoon.

The winter pa.s.sed slowly. In the cavalry barracks in Vienna a change was observed in Harry Leskjewitsch. He began to be looked upon as a very earnest and hard-working young officer. His name stood first among those for whom a brilliant military career was prophesied. And, oddly enough, while there was a great increase in the regard in which he was held by his superior officers, there was no decrease in his popularity with his comrades.

The youngest good-for-naughts did, it is true, reproach him with having become tediously serious, and with great caution in spending his money.

But when by chance the cause of his sudden economy was discovered, all discontent with his conduct ceased, especially since his purse was always at the service of a needy comrade.

When, after the Harfinks had returned from Nice, he first met Paula in the street, he was much confused, and was conscious of blushing. He felt strangely on beholding the full red lips which had so often kissed him, the form which had so often hung upon his arm. When, with some hesitation, he touched his cap, he wondered at the easy grace with which the young lady returned his salute. His wonder was still greater when, a few days afterwards, he encountered Frau von Harfink, who accosted him, and, after inquiring about his health, added, with her sweetest smile,--

"I trust that my daughter's withdrawal from her engagement to you will not prevent you from visiting us. Good heavens! it was a mistake; you were not at all suited to each other. We shall be delighted to welcome you as a friend at any time. Come soon to see us."

If Harry were changed, Zdena was not less so. She was more silent than formerly; the outbreaks of childish gaiety in which she had been wont to indulge had vanished entirely, while, on the other hand, there was never a trace of her old discontent. Indeed, there was no time for anything of the kind, she had so much to do.

She had developed a wonderful interest in household affairs; spent some time each day in the kitchen, where, engaged in the most prosaic occupations, she displayed so much grace that the major could not help peeping at her from time to time. And when her uncle praised at table some wondrous result of her labours, she would answer, eagerly, "Yes, is it not good? and it is not very expensive."

Whereupon the major would pinch her cheek and smile significantly.

Frau Rosamunda was not at all aware of what was going on about her. She frequently commended the girl's dexterity in all that her awakened interest in household affairs led her to undertake, and after informing the major of his niece's improvement, and congratulating herself in being able to hand her keys over to the girl, she would add, with a sigh, "I am so glad she never took anything into her head with regard to Roderick. I must confess that I think his sudden disappearance very odd, after all the attention he paid her."