Kitabı oku: «The Fortunes Of Glencore», sayfa 25

“Was not this a mere fancy?” said the Princess, compassionately, for she saw the shuddering emotion these words had cost her.

“It was not alone his look,” continued the Countess, speaking now with impetuous eagerness, “it was not merely his features, but their every play and movement; his gestures when excited; the very voice was his. I saw him once excited to violent passion; it was some taunt that Wahnsdorf uttered about men of unknown or ignoble origin; and then He – he himself seemed to stand before me as I have so often seen him, in his terrible outbursts of rage. The sight brought back to me the dreadful recollection of those scenes, – scenes,” said she, looking wildly around her, “that if these old walls could speak, might freeze your heart where you are sitting.

“You have heard, but you cannot know, the miserable life we led together; the frantic jealousy that maddened every hour of his existence; how, in all the harmless freedom of our Italian life, he saw causes of suspicion and distrust; how, by his rudeness to this one, his coldness to that, he estranged me from all who have been my dearest intimates and friends, dictating to me the while the custom of a land and a people I had never seen nor wished to see; till at last I was left a mockery to some, an object of pity to others, amidst a society where once I reigned supreme, – and all for a man that I had ceased to love! It was from this same life of misery, unrewarded by the affection by which jealousy sometimes compensates for its tyranny, that I escaped, to attach myself to the fortunes of that unhappy Princess whose lot bore some resemblance to my own.

“I know well that he ascribed my desertion to another cause, and – shall I own it to you? – I had a savage pleasure in leaving him to the delusion. It was the only vengeance within my reach, and I grasped it with eagerness. Nothing was easier for me than to disprove it, – a mere word would have shown the falsehood of the charge; but I would not utter it. I knew his nature well, and that the insult to his name and the stain to his honor would be the heaviest of all injuries to him; and they were so. He drove me from my home, – I banished him from the world. It is true, I never reckoned on the cruel blow he had yet in store for me, and when it fell I was crushed and stunned. There was now a declared war between us, – each to do their worst to the other. It was less succumbing before him, than to meditate and determine on the future, that I fled from Florence. It was not here and in such a society I should have to blush for any imputation. But I had always held my place proudly, perhaps too proudly, here, and I did not care to enter upon that campaign of defence – that stooping to cultivate alliances, that humble game of conciliation – that must ensue.

“I went away into banishment. I went to Corsica, and thence to Massa. I was meditating a journey to the East. I was even speculating on establishing myself there for the rest of my life, when your letters changed my plans. You once more kindled in my heart a love of life by instilling a love of vengeance. You suggested to me the idea of coming back here boldly, and confronting the world proudly.”

“Do not mistake me, Nina,” said the Princess, “the ‘Vendetta’ was the last thing in my thoughts. I was too deeply concerned for you to be turned away from my object by any distracting influence. It was that you should give a bold denial – the boldest – to your husband’s calumny, I counselled your return. My advice was: Disregard, and, by disregarding, deny the foul slander he has invented. Go back to the world in the rank that is yours and that you never forfeited, and then challenge him to oppose your claim to it.”

“And do you think that for such a consideration as this – the honor to bear the name of a man I loathe – that I ‘d face that world I know so well? No, no; believe me, I had very different reasons. I was resolved that my future life, my name, his name, should gain a European notoriety. I am well aware that when a woman is made a public talk, when once her name comes sufficiently often before the world, let it be for what you will, – her beauty, her will, her extravagance, her dress, – from that hour her fame is perilled, and the society she has overtopped take their vengeance in slandering her character. To be before the world as a woman is to be arraigned. If ever there was a man who dreaded such a destiny for his wife, it was he. The impertinences of the Press had greater terrors for his heart than aught else in life, and I resolved that he should taste them.”

“How have you mistaken, how have you misunderstood me, Nina!” said the Princess, sorrowfully.

“Not so,” cried she, eagerly. “You only saw one advantage in the plan you counselled. I perceived that it contained a double benefit.”

“But remember, dearest Nina, revenge is the most costly of all pleasures, if one pays for it with all that they possess – their tranquillity. I myself might have indulged such thoughts as yours; there were many points alike in our fortunes: but to have followed such a course would be like the wisdom of one who inoculates himself with a deadly malady that he may impart the poison to another.”

“Must I again tell you that in all I have done I cared less how it might serve me than how it might wound him? I know you cannot understand this sentiment; I do not ask of you to sympathize with it. Your talents enabled you to shape out a high and ambitious career for yourself. You loved the great intrigues of state, and were well fitted to conduct or control them. None such gifts were mine. I was and I am still a mere creature of society. I never soared, even in fancy, beyond the triumphs which the world of fashion decrees. A cruel destiny excluded me from the pleasures of a life that would have amply satisfied me, and there is nothing left but to avenge myself on the cause.”

“My dearest Nina, with all your self-stimulation you cannot make yourself the vindictive creature you would appear,” said the Princess, smiling.

“How little do you know my Italian blood!” said the other, passionately. “That boy – he was not much more than boy – that Greppi was, as I told you, the very image of Glencore. The same dark skin, the same heavy brow, the same cold, stern look, which even a smile did not enliven; even to the impassive air with which he listened to a provocation, – all were alike. Well, the resemblance has cost him dearly. I consented at last to Wahnsdorf’s continual entreaty to exclude him from the Villa, and charged the Count with the commission. I am not sure that he expended an excess of delicacy on the task; I half fear me that he did the act more rudely than was needed. At all events, a quarrel was the result, and a challenge to a duel. I only knew of this when all was over; believe me, I should never have permitted it. However, the result was as safe in the hands of Fate. The youth fled from Massa; and though Wahnsdorf followed him, they never met.”

“There was no duel, you say?” cried the Princess, eagerly.

“How could there be? This Greppi never went to the rendezvous. He quitted Massa during the night, and has never since been heard of. In this, I own to you, he was not like him.” And, as she said the words, the tears swam in her eyes, and rolled down her cheeks. “May I ask you how you learned all this?” “From Wahnsdorf; on his return, in a week or two, he told me all. Ida, at first, would not believe it; but how could she discredit what was plain and palpable? Greppi was gone. All the inquiries of the police were in vain as to his route; none could guess how he had escaped.”

“And this account was given you – you yourself – by Wahnsdorf?” repeated the Princess.

“Yes, to myself. Why should he have concealed it?” “And now he is to marry Ida?” said the Princess, half musingly, to herself.

“We hope, with your aid, that it may be so. The family difficulties are great; Wahnsdorf s rank is not ours; but he persists in saying that to your management nothing is impossible.”

“His opinion is too flattering,” said the Princess, with a cold gravity of manner.

“But you surely will not refuse us your assistance?” “You may count upon me even for more than you ask,” said the Princess, rising. “How late it is! day is breaking already!” And so, with a tender embrace, they parted.

CHAPTER XLIII. MADAME DE SABBLOUKOFF IN THE MORNING

Madame de Sabloukoff inhabited “the grand apartment” of the Hôtel d’Italie, which is the handsomest quarter of the great hotel of Florence. The same suite which had once the distinguished honor of receiving a Czar and a King of Prussia, and Heaven knows how many lesser potentates! was now devoted to one who, though not of the small number of the elect-in-purple, was yet, in her way, what politicians calls a “puissance.”

As in the drama a vast number of agencies are required for the due performance of a piece, so, on the greater stage of life, many of the chief motive powers rarely are known to the public eye. The Princess was of this number. She was behind the scenes, in more than one sense, and had her share in the great events of her time.

While her beauty lasted, she had traded on the great capital of attractions which were unsurpassed in Europe. As the perishable flower faded, she, with prudential foresight, laid up a treasure in secret knowledge of people and their acts, which made her dreaded and feared where she was once admired and flattered. Perhaps – it is by no means improbable – she preferred this latter tribute to the former.

Although the strong sunlight was tempered by the closed jalousies and the drawn muslin curtains, she sat with her back to the window, so that her features were but dimly visible in the darkened atmosphere of the room. There was something of coquetry in this; but there was more, – there was a dash of semi-secrecy in the air of gloom and stillness around, which gave to each visitor who presented himself, – and she received but one at a time, – an impression of being admitted to an audience of confidence and trust. The mute-like servant who waited in the corridor without, and who drew back a massive curtain on your entrance, also aided the delusion, imparting to the interview a character of mysterious solemnity.

Through that solemn portal there had passed, in and out, during the morning, various dignitaries of the land, ministers and envoys, and grand “chargés” of the Court. The embroidered key of the Chamberlain and the purple stockings of a Nuncio had come and gone; and now there was a Brief pause, for the groom in waiting had informed the crowd in the antechamber that the Princess could receive no more. Then there was a hurried scrawling of great names in a large book, a shower of visiting-cards, and all was over; the fine equipages of fine people dashed off, and the courtyard of the hotel was empty.

The large clock on the mantelpiece struck three, and Madame de Sabloukoff compared the time with her watch, and by a movement of impatience showed a feeling of displeasure. She was not accustomed to have her appointments lightly treated, and he for whom she had fixed an hour was now thirty minutes behind his time. She had been known to resent such unpunctuality, and she looked as though she might do so again. “I remember the day when his grand-uncle descended from his carriage to speak to me,” muttered she; “and that same grand-uncle was an emperor.”

Perhaps the chance reflection of her image in the large glass before her somewhat embittered the recollection, for her features flushed, and as suddenly grew pale again. It may have been that her mind went rapidly back to a period when her fascination was a despotism that even the highest and the haughtiest obeyed. “Too true,” said she, speaking to herself, “time has dealt heavily with us all. But they are no more what they once were than am I. Their old compact of mutual assistance is crumbling away under the pressure of new rivalries and new pretensions. Kings and Kaisers will soon be like bygone beauties. I wonder will they bear their altered fortune as heroically?” It is but just to say that her tremulous accents and quivering lip bore little evidence of the heroism she spoke of.

She rang the bell violently, and as the servant entered she said, but in a voice of perfect unconcern, —

“When the Count von Wahnsdorf calls, you will tell him that I am engaged, but will receive him to-morrow – ”

“And why not to-day, charming Princess?” said a young man, entering hastily, and whose graceful but somewhat haughty air set off to every advantage his splendid Hungarian costume. “Why not now?” said he, stooping to kiss her hand with respectful gallantry. She motioned to the servant to withdraw, and they were alone.

“You are not over exact in keeping an appointment, monsieur,” said she, stiffly. “It is somewhat cruel to remind me that my claims in this respect have grown antiquated.”

“I fancied myself the soul of punctuality, my dear Princess,” said he, adjusting the embroidered pelisse he wore over his shoulder. “You mentioned four as the hour – ”

“I said three o’clock,” replied she, coldly.

“Three, or four, or even five, – what does it signify?” said he, carelessly. “We have not either of us, I suspect, much occupation to engage us; and if I have interfered with your other plans – if you have plans – A thousand pardons!” cried he, suddenly, as the deep color of her face and her flashing eye warned him that he had gone too far; “but the fact is, I was detained at the riding-school. They have sent me some young horses from the Banat, and I went over to look at them.”

“The Count de Wahnsdorf knows that he need make no apologies to Madame de Sabloukoff,” said she, calmly; “but it were just as graceful, perhaps, to affect them. My dear Count,” continued she, but in a tone perfectly free from all touch of irritation, “I have asked to see and speak with you on matters purely your own – ”

“You want to dissuade me from this marriage,” said he, interrupting; “but I fancy that I have already listened to everything that can be urged on that affair. If you have any argument other than the old one about misalliance and the rest of it, I ‘ll hear it patiently; though I tell you beforehand that I should like to learn that a connection with an imperial house had some advantage besides that of a continual barrier to one’s wishes.”

“I understand,” said she, quietly, “that you named the terms on which you would abandon this project, – is it not so?”

“Who told you that?” cried he, angrily. “Is this another specimen of the delicacy with which ministers treat a person of my station?”

“To discuss that point, Count, would lead us wide of our mark. Am I to conclude that my informant was correct?”

“How can I tell what may have been reported to you?” said he, almost rudely.

“You shall hear and judge for yourself,” was the calm answer. “Count Kollorath informed me that you offered to abandon this marriage on condition that you were appointed to the command of the Pahlen Hussars.”

The young man’s face became scarlet with shame, and he tried twice to speak, but unavailingly.

With a merciless slowness of utterance, and a manner of the most unmoved sternness, she went on: “I did not deem the proposal at all exorbitant. It was a price that they could well afford to pay.”

“Well, they refused me,” said he, bluntly.

“Not exactly refused you,” said she, more gently. “They reminded you of the necessity of conforming – of at least appearing to conform – to the rules of the service; that you had only been a few months in command of a squadron; that your debts, which were considerable, had been noised about the world, so that a little time should elapse, and a favorable opportunity present itself, before this promotion could be effected.”

“How correctly they have instructed you in all the details of this affair!” said he, with a scornful smile.

“It is a rare event when I am misinformed, sir,” was her cold reply; “nor could it redound to the advantage of those who ask my advice to afford me incorrect information.”

“Then I am quite unable to perceive what you want with me.” cried he. “It is plain enough you are in possession of all that I could tell you. Or is all this only the prelude to some menace or other?”

She made no other answer to this rude question than by a smile so dubious in its meaning, it might imply scorn, or pity, or even sorrow.

“You must not wonder if I be angry,” continued he, in an accent that betokened shame at his own violence. “They have treated me so long as a fool that they have made me something worse than one.”

“I am not offended by your warmth, Count,” said she, softly. “It is at least the guarantee of your sincerity. I tell you, therefore, I have no threat to hold over you. It will be enough that I can show you the impolicy of this marriage, – I don’t want to use a stronger word, – what estrangement it will lead to as regards your own family, how inadequately it will respond to the sacrifices it must cost.”

“That consideration is for me to think of, madam,” said he, proudly.

“And for your friends also,” interposed she, softly.

“If by my friends you mean those who have watched every occasion of my life to oppose my plans and thwart my wishes, I conclude that they will prove themselves as vigilant now as heretofore; but I am getting somewhat weary of this friendship.”

“My dear Count, give me a patient – if possible, an indulgent – hearing for five minutes, or even half that time, and I hope it will save us both a world of misconception. If this marriage that you are so eager to contract were an affair of love, – of that ardent, passionate love which recognizes no obstacle nor acknowledges any barrier to its wishes, – I could regard the question as one of those everyday events in life whose uniformity is seldom broken by a new incident; for love stories have a terrible sameness in them.” She smiled as she said this, and in such a way as to make him smile at first, and then laugh heartily.

“But if,” resumed she, seriously, – “if I only see in this project a mere caprice, half – more than half – based upon the pleasure of wounding family pride, or of coercing those who have hitherto dictated to you; if, besides this, I perceive that there is no strong affection on either side, none of that impetuous passion which the world accepts as ‘the attenuating circumstance’ in rash marriages – ”

“And who has told you that I do not love Ida, or that she is not devoted with her whole heart to me?” cried he, interrupting her.

“You yourself have told the first. You have shown by the price you have laid on the object the value at which you estimate it. As for the latter part of your question – ” She paused, and arranged the folds of her shawl, purposely playing with his impatience, and enjoying it.

“Well,” cried he, “as for the latter part; go on.”

“It scarcely requires an answer. I saw Ida Delia Torre last night in a society of which her affianced husband was not one; and, I will be bold enough to say, hers was not the bearing that bespoke engaged affections.”

“Indeed!” said he, but in a tone that indicated neither displeasure nor surprise.

“It was as I have told you, Count. Surrounded by the youth of Florence, such as you know them, she laughed, and talked, and sang, in all the careless gayety of a heart at ease; or, if at moments a shade of sadness crossed her features, it was so brief that only one observing her closely as myself could mark it.”

“And how did that subtle intelligence of yours interpret this show of sorrow?” said he, in a voice of mockery, but yet of deep anxiety.

“My subtle intelligence was not taxed to guess, for I knew her secret,” said the Princess, with all the strength of conscious power.

“Her secret – her secret!” said he, eagerly. “What do you mean by that?”

The Princess smiled coldly, and said, “I have not yet found my frankness so well repaid that I should continue to extend it.”

“What is the reward to be, madam? Name it,” said he, boldly.

“The same candor on your part, Count; I ask for no more.”

“But what have I to reveal; what mystery is there that your omniscience has not penetrated?”

“There may be some that your frankness has not avowed, my dear Count.”

“If you refer to what you have called Ida’s secret – ”

“No,” broke she in. “I was now alluding to what might be called your secret.”

“Mine! my secret!” exclaimed he. But though the tone was meant to convey great astonishment, the confusion of his manner was far more apparent.

“Your secret, Count,” she repeated slowly, “which has been just as safe in my keeping as if it had been confided to me on honor.”

“I was not aware how much I owed to your discretion, madam,” said he, scoffingly.

“I am but too happy when any services of mine can rescue the fame of a great family from reproach, sir,” replied she, proudly; for all the control she had heretofore imposed upon her temper seemed at last to have yielded to offended dignity. “Happily for that illustrious house – happily for you, too – I am one of a very few who know of Count Wahnsdorf’s doings. To have suffered your antagonist in a duel to be tracked, arrested, and imprisoned in an Austrian fortress, when a word from you had either warned him of his peril or averted the danger, was bad enough; but to have stigmatized his name with cowardice, and to have defamed him because he was your rival, was far worse.”

Wahnsdorf struck the table with his clenched fist till it shook beneath the blow, but never uttered a word, while with increased energy she continued, —

“Every step of this bad history is known to me; every detail of it, from your gross and insulting provocation of this poor friendless youth to the last scene of his committal to a dungeon.”

“And, of course, you have related your interesting narrative to Ida?” cried he.

“No, sir; the respect which I have never lost for those whose name you bear had been quite enough to restrain me, had I not even other thoughts.”

“And what may they be?” asked he.

“To take the first opportunity of finding myself alone with you, to represent how nearly it concerns your honor that this affair should never be bruited abroad; to insist upon your lending every aid to obtain this young man’s liberation; to show that the provocation came from yourself; and, lastly, all-painful though it be, to remove from him the stain you have inflicted, and to reinstate him in the esteem that your calumny may have robbed him of. These were the other thoughts I alluded to.”

“And you fancy that I am to engage in this sea of trouble for the sake of some nameless bastard, while in doing so I compromise myself and my own honor?”

“Do you prefer that it should be done by another, Count Wahnsdorf?” asked she.

“This is a threat, madam.”

“All the speedier will the matter be settled if you understand it as such.”

“And, of course, the next condition will be for me to resign my pretensions to Ida in his favor,” said he, with a savage irony.

“I stipulate for nothing of the sort; Count Wahnsdorf’s pretensions will be to-morrow just where they are to-day.”

“You hold them cheaply, madam. I am indeed unfortunate in all my pursuit of your esteem.”

“You live in a sphere to command it, sir,” was her reply, given with a counterfeited humility; and whether it was the tone of mingled insolence and submission she assumed, or simply the sense of his own unworthiness in her sight, but Wahnsdorf cowered before her like a frightened child. At this moment the servant entered, and presented a visiting-card to the Princess.

“Ah, he comes in an opportune moment,” cried she. “This is the Minister of the Duke of Massa’s household, – the Chevalier Stubber. Yes,” continued she to the servant, “I will receive him.”

If there was not any conspicuous gracefulness in the Chevalier’s approach, there was an air of quiet self-possession that bespoke a sense of his own worth and importance; and while he turned to pay his respects to the young Count, his unpolished manner was not devoid of a certain dignity.

“It is a fortunate chance by which I find you here, Count Wahnsdorf,” said he, “for you will be glad to learn that the young fellow you had that affair with at Massa has just been liberated.”

“When, and how?” cried the Princess, hastily.

“As to the time, it must be about four days ago, as my letters inform me; as to the how, I fancy the Count can best inform you, – he has interested himself greatly in the matter.” The Count blushed deeply, and turned away to hide his face, but not so quickly as to miss the expression of scornful meaning with which the Princess regarded him.

“But I want to hear the details, Chevalier,” said she.

“And I can give you none, madam. My despatches simply mention that the act of arrest was discovered in some way to be informal. Sir Horace Upton proved so much. There then arose a question of giving him up to us; but my master declined the honor, – he would have no trouble, he said, with England or Englishmen; and some say that the youth claims an English nationality. The cabinet of Vienna are, perhaps, like-minded in the matter; at all events, he is free, and will be here to-morrow.”

“Then I shall invite him to dinner, and beg both of you gentlemen to meet him,” said she, with a voice wherein a tone of malicious drollery mingled.

“I am your servant, madam,” said Stubber.

“And I am engaged,” said Wahnsdorf, taking up his shako.

“You are off to Vienna to-night, Count Wahnsdorf,” whispered the Princess-in his ear.

“What do you mean, madam?” said he, in a tone equally low.

“Only that I have a letter written for the Archduchess Sophia, which I desire to intrust to your hands. You may as well read ere I seal it.”

The Count took the letter from her hand, and retired towards the window to read it. While she conversed eagerly with Stubber, she did not fail from time to time to glance towards the other, and mark the expression of his features as he folded and replaced the letter in its envelope, and, slowly approaching her, said, —

“You are most discreet, madam.”

“I hope I am just, sir,” said she, modestly.

“This was something of a difficult undertaking, too,” said he, with an equivocal smile.

“It was certainly a pleasant and proud one, sir, as it always must be, to write to a mother in commendation of her son. By the way, Chevalier, you have forgotten to make your compliments to the Count on his promotion – ”

“I have not heard of it, madam; what may it be?” asked Stubber.

“To the command of the Pahlen Hussars, sir, – one of the proudest ‘charges’ of the Empire.”

A rush of blood to Wahnsdorf’s face was as quickly followed by a deadly pallor, and with a broken, faint utterance he said, “Good-bye,” and left the room.

“A fine young fellow, – the very picture of a soldier,” exclaimed Stubber, looking after him.

“A chevalier of the olden time, sir, – the very soul of honor,” said the Princess, enthusiastically. “And now for a little gossip with yourself.”

It is not “in our brief” to record what passed in that chatty interview; plenty of state secrets and state gossip there was, – abundance of that dangerous trifling which mixes up the passions of society with the great game of politics, and makes statecraft feel the impress of men’s whims and caprices. We were just beginning that era, “the policy of resentments,” which has since pervaded Europe, and the Chevalier and the Princess were sufficiently behind the scenes to have many things to communicate; and here we must leave them while we hasten on to other scenes and other actors.