"Your Lena," said he, repeating the signature, once more to himself and a sort of restlessness took possession of him, because all kinds of conflicting emotions pa.s.sed through his heart: love, anxiety, fear.

Then he read the letter through again. At two or three pa.s.sages he could not forbear to make a little mark with his silver pencil, not through pedantry, but through pure delight. "How well she writes! The handwriting certainly, and the spelling almost ... _Stiehl_ instead of _Stiel_.... Well, why not? Stiehl was a much dreaded school inspector, but the Lord be praised, I am not. And '_emphelen_.' Shall I be put out with her over f and h? Good Lord, how many people can spell 'empfehlen'

properly? The young Countesses cannot always, and the old ones never.

So where is the harm! Really, the letter is like Lena herself, good, true and trustworthy, and the mistakes make it only the more charming."

He leaned back in his chair and covered his eyes and brow with his hand: "Poor Lena, what is to come of all this? It would have been better for us both, if there had been no Easter Monday this time. Why indeed should there be two holidays? Why Treptow and Stralau and boating excursions? And now my Uncle! Either he is coming as a messenger from my mother, or else he has plans for me himself, of his own initiative. Well, we shall see. He has never been through any training in diplomatic disguises, and even if he has sworn ten oaths to keep silence, he comes out with everything. I shall soon find out, for all that I am even less experienced than he in the art of intrigue."

Thereupon he pulled out a drawer of his writing table, in which there were already other letters of Lena's, tied up with a red ribbon. And now he rang for the servant to help him to dress. "So, John, that is all I need.... And now don't forget to draw the blinds down. And if anyone should come and ask for me, I shall be at the barracks till twelve, at Hiller's after one and at Renz's in the evening. And be sure to raise the blinds again at the right time, so that I shall not find a bake-oven again. And leave the lamp lighted in the front room, but not in my bedroom; it seems as if the flies are possessed this year. Do you understand?"

"Very good, Herr Baron."

And during this dialogue, which was half carried on in the corridor, Rienacker pa.s.sed through the vestibule, and out in the garden he playfully pulled the braids of the porter's little girl, who was stooping over her little brother's wagon, and got in return a furious glance, which changed to one of delight as soon as she recognized him.

And now at last he stepped through the gate to the street. Here he saw beneath the green bower of the chestnut trees the men and vehicles pa.s.sing silently to and fro between the great gate and the Zoological Garden, as if through the gla.s.s of a camera. "How beautiful! This is surely one of the best of worlds."

CHAPTER VII

Towards twelve his service at the barracks being over, Botho von Rienacker was walking along under the Lindens toward the Gate, simply with the intention of filling up the time as well as he could until his interview at Hiller's. Two or three picture shops were very welcome to him in this interim. At Lepke's there were a couple of Oswald Achenbach's in the show window, among them a street in Palermo, dirty and sunny, and strikingly truthful as to life and color. "There are things, then, about which one is never quite clear. So it is with these Achenbach's. Until recently I always swore by Andreas; but when I see something like this, I do not know that Oswald is not his equal or his superior. In any case he is more brilliant and varied. But such things as this I can only think to myself, for to say them before people would be to lower the value of my 'Storm at Sea' by half, and quite unnecessarily."

Thinking of these matters he stood for a time before Lepke's show window and then walked across the Parisian Square to the Gate and the path turning sharply to the left toward the Zoological Garden, until he paused before Wolf's group of lions. Here he looked at the clock. "Half past twelve. Then it is time." And so he turned and went back over the same path towards the Lindens.

In front of the Redern Palace he saw Lieutenant von Wedell of the Dragoon Guards coming towards him.

"Where are you going, Wedell?"

"To the club. And you?"

"To Hiller's."

"Aren't you rather early?"

"Yes, but what of it? I am to breakfast with an old uncle of mine, an old Neumarker who lives in an odd corner with 'Aldermann, Petermann and Zimmermann'--all names that rhyme with man, but without connection or obligation. By the way, he was once in your regiment, my Uncle, I mean.

To be sure it was long ago, about forty years. Baron Osten."

"From Wietzendorf?"

"The same."

"Oh, I know him, at least by name. There is some relationship. My grandmother was an Osten. Is he the same who has the quarrel with Bismarck?"

"The same. I tell you what, Wedell, you had better come too. The club can wait and Pitt and Serge too; you can find them at three just as well as at one. The old gentleman is still wild over the blue and gold of the dragoons, and is enough of a Neumarker to consider every Wedell an acquisition."

"Very well, Rienacker, but it is on your responsibility."

"With pleasure."

During this talk they had reached Hiller's, where the old Baron was already standing by the gla.s.s door looking out, for it was a minute after one. He made no comments, however, and was evidently overjoyed when Botho presented "Lieutenant von Wedell."

"Your nephew ..."

"No excuses. Herr von Wedell, everyone who bears the name of Wedell is welcome to me, and doubly and trebly so when wearing this coat. Come, gentlemen, we will extricate ourselves from this melee of tables and chairs, and concentrate in the rear as well as we can. It is not Prussian to retreat, but here it does not matter." And therewith he preceded his guests to choose a good place, and after looking into several little private rooms, he decided on a rather large room, with walls of some leather colored material, which was not very light, in spite of the fact that it had a broad window in three parts, because this looked out on a narrow and dark court. The table was already laid for four, but in the twinkling of an eye the fourth cover was removed, and while the two officers placed their side arms in the corner of the window, the old Baron turned to the head waiter, who had followed at some distance, and ordered a lobster and some white Burgundy. "But what kind, Botho?"

"How would Chablis do?"

"Very well, Chablis, and fresh water. But not from the tap. I want it cold in a carafe. And now, gentlemen, be seated: my dear Wedell, sit here, and Botho there. If only we hadn't this heat, this dog-day weather coming so early. Air, gentlemen, air. Your beautiful Berlin, (which, so they tell me, grows more beautiful all the time, at least those who know no better say so), your beautiful Berlin has everything but air." And with these words he threw open the big window sash, and sat so that he had the large middle opening directly opposite him.

The lobster had not yet come, but the Chablis was already on the table.

Old Baron Osten restlessly began to cut one of the rolls from the basket quickly and skilfully into diagonal strips, merely for the sake of having something to do. Then he laid down the knife again and offered his hand to Wedell. "I am endlessly grateful to you, Herr von Wedell, and it was a brilliant idea of Botho's to alienate your affections from the club for a couple of hours. I take it as a good omen, to have the privilege of meeting a Wedell immediately after my arrival in Berlin."

And now he began to fill the gla.s.ses, because he could not control his uneasiness any longer. He ordered a bottle of Clicquot to be set to cool and then went on: "Really, dear Wedell, we are related; there are no Wedells to whom we are not related, were it only through a bushel of peas; we all have Neumark blood. And when I see the blue of my old dragoons once more, my heart jumps right up in my mouth. Yes, Herr von Wedell, old affection does not rust. But here comes the lobster....

Please bring me the big shears. The shears are always the best.... But, as I was saying, old love does not grow rusty, nor the edge of the blade either. And I wish to add, the Lord be praised. In those days we still had old Dobeneck. Heavens, what a man he was! A man like a child.

But if things did not go well and would not work out properly, I should have liked to see the man who could keep his face under old Dobeneck's eye. He was a regular old East Prussian dating from the year '13 and '14. We were afraid of him, but we loved him too. For he was like a father. And, do you know, Herr von Wedell, who my riding master was ...?"

At this point the champagne was brought in.

"My riding master was Manteuffel, the same to whom we owe everything that the army, and victory with the army, has made of us."

Herr von Wedell bowed, while Botho said softly: "Surely, one may well say so."

But that was not wise nor clever of Botho, as was soon manifest, for the old Baron, who was already subject to congestion, turned red all over his bald head and what little curly hair still remained on his temples seemed to curl still tighter. "I don't understand you, Botho; what do you mean by 'one may well say so,' that is the same as to say 'one might also not say so.' And I know, too, what all this points to.

It signifies that a certain officer of Cuira.s.siers from the reserves, who, for the rest, held nothing in reserve, least of all revolutionary measures, it signifies, I say, that a certain man from Halberstadt with a sulphur-yellow collar, himself personally stormed St. Privat and closed the great circle around Sedan. Botho, you ought not to come to me with any such tale as that. He was a young barrister and worked for the government at Potsdam, and what is more, under old Meding, who never spoke well of him, as I know, and for that matter, he never learned anything but how to write despatches. I am willing to grant him that much, he does understand that, or in other words, he is a quill driver. But it is not quill drivers who have made Prussia great. Was the hero of Fehrbellin a quill driver? Was the hero of Leuthen a quill driver? Was Blucher a quill driver, or York? The power of the Prussian pen is _here_! I cannot suffer this cult."

"But my dear Uncle ..."

"But, but, I will tolerate no buts. Believe me, Botho, it takes years to settle such questions; I understand such things better. How is it then? He tips over the ladder by which he has climbed, and even suppresses the 'Kreuzzeitung,' and, to speak plainly, he ruins us; he despises us, he tells us foolish things, and if he takes a notion to, he denounces us for robbery or interception of doc.u.ments and sends us to the fortress. But why do I say fortress? The fortress is for decent people; no, he sends us to the poor-house to pluck wool.... But air, gentlemen, air. There is no air here. d.a.m.nable hole."

And he jumped up, and in addition to the middle window which was already open, he flung wide the two side windows also, so that the draught that pa.s.sed through blew the curtains and the tablecloth about.

Then, sitting down again, he took a piece of ice from the champagne cooler and pa.s.sed it over his forehead.

"Ah," he went on, "this piece of ice is the best thing in the whole breakfast.... And now tell me, Herr von Wedell, am I right or not?

Botho, with your hand on your heart, am I right? Is it not true that one, as a member of the Markisch n.o.bility, may talk oneself into a charge of high treason simply through the pure indignation of a n.o.bleman? Such a man ... from one of our very finest families ... finer than Bismarck's, and so many have fallen for the throne and for the Hohenzollerns, that you could form a whole regimental company of them, a company with helmets, and the Boitzenburger to command them. Yes, my friends. And such an affront to such a family. And what for?

Interception of doc.u.ments, indiscretion, betrayal of official secrets.

I should like to know if there is anything else left except child murder and offences against morality, and it is actually strange that they have not loaded those on also. But you gentlemen are not saying any thing. Speak out, I beg you. Believe me, I can listen to other opinions patiently; I am not like him; speak, Herr von Wedell, speak."

Wedell, whose embarra.s.sment was increasing, sought for some soothing and reconciling words: "Certainly, Herr Baron, it is as you say. But, pardon me, at the time that the affair was decided, I heard many express the opinion, and the words have remained in my memory, that the weaker must give up all idea of crossing the path of the stronger, for that is impossible in life just as in politics. Once for all it is so: might is more than right."

"And there is no gainsaying that, no appeal?"

"Oh yes, Herr Baron. Under some circ.u.mstances an appeal is possible.

And, to be perfectly frank, I have known of cases where opposition was justified. What weakness dare not venture, sincerity might, the sincerity of belief, the courage of conviction. In such cases resistance is not only a right but a duty. But who has this sincerity?

Had he ... But I will be silent, for I do not want to offend either you, Herr Baron, or the family to whom we have reference. But you know, even without my telling you, that he who had that audacity, had not such sincerity of belief. He who is merely the weaker should dare nothing, only the pure in heart should dare everything."

"Only the pure in heart should dare everything," repeated the old Baron, with such a roguish expression, that it seemed doubtful whether he was more impressed by the truth or by the untenability of the thesis. "The pure in heart should dare everything. A capital saying which I shall carry away with me. It will please my pastor, who undertook a controversy with me last autumn and demanded a strip of my land. Not for his own sake, the Lord forbid! but for the sake of principle, and of posterity, for which reasons he ought not to yield.

The sly old fox. But the pure in heart should dare everything."