The Nameless Castle

CHAPTER I

So far as Marie’s safety from robbers was concerned, Count Vavel might now rest content. Satan Laczi’s advice had been obeyed to the letter. But how about Baroness Landsknechtsschild? Danger still threatened her.

Count Vavel was seriously concerned about his fair neighbor, and wondered how he might communicate his extraordinary discovery to her. What could he do to warn her of the danger which still threatened her? Should he call in person at the manor, and tell her of his interview with Satan Laczi?

A propitious chance came to Count Vavel’s aid in his perplexity.

One afternoon the sound of a trumpet drew him to his window. On looking out, he beheld a division of cavalry riding along the highway toward the village. They were dragoons, as their glistening helmets indicated.

When the troop drew near to the village, the band struck up a lively mazurka, and to this spirited march the soldiers made their entry into Fertöszeg. Ludwig could see through his telescope how the men were quartered in the houses in the village; and in the evening, after the retreat had been sounded, he also saw that the windows of the hitherto unused wing of the manor were brilliantly illuminated. Evidently the officers in command of the troop had taken up their quarters there, which was proper. The armed guard on duty at the manor gates verified this supposition.

Count Vavel might now feel perfectly sure that no robbers would attempt to break into the manor; they were too cunning to come prowling about a place where cavalry officers were quartered.

And with the arrival of the troop another danger had been averted. Now Baroness Katharina would not break into the Nameless Castle and despoil Count Vavel of something which Satan Laczi could not, with all his cunning, have restored to him—his heart!

Count Ludwig did not trouble himself further about the manor. He was convinced that enough gallant cavalrymen were over yonder to entertain the fair mistress, so that she would no longer wait for any more tiresome philosophizing from him.

Every evening he could hear the band playing on the veranda of the manor, and very often, too, the merry dance-music, which floated from the open windows until a late hour of the night. They were enjoying themselves over yonder, and they were right in so doing.

How did all this concern him?

In one respect, however, the soldiers taking up their quarters in Fertöszeg concerned him: they exercised daily on the same road over which it was his custom to take his daily drive with Marie. In order to avoid meeting them, he was obliged to change the hour to noon, when the soldiers would be at dinner.

Several days after the arrival of the troop at Fertöszeg, the officer in command paid a visit at the Nameless Castle—a courtesy required from one who was familiar with the usages of good society. At the door, however, he was told by the groom that Count Vavel was not at home. He left his card, which Henry at once delivered to his master, who was in his study.

The card bore the name:

“Vicomte Leon Barthelmy, K. K., Colonel of Cavalry.”

Count Vavel tried to remember where he had heard the name before, but without success. He quieted his dread which this act of ceremony had aroused in him by the thought that it contained no further significance than the conventional courtesy which a stranger felt himself called upon to pay to a resident.

The call would, of course, have to be returned. From his observatory Count Vavel informed himself at what hour the colonel betook himself to the exercise-ground, and chose that time to make his visit. Naturally he found the colonel absent, and left a card for him. A few days afterward Colonel Barthelmy again alighted from his horse at the door of the Nameless Castle, and again met with a disappointment—the Herr Count was not at home to visitors; he was engaged, and had given orders not to be disturbed.

Again the troop’s commander left his card, determining to remain indoors at the manor until the return visit had been paid, which would have to be done within twenty-four hours if no rudeness were intended.

He was not a little astonished to find, on returning to the manor, that Count Vavel had left a card for him with the porter. Such promptness perplexed the colonel. How had the count managed to reach the manor before he did? The porter informed him that the gentleman from the Nameless Castle had rowed across the cove, which was a much shorter way than by the carriage-road around the shore.

The colonel now determined to prove that he was an obstinate and persistent admirer of the occupant of the Nameless Castle. He paid a third visit at eight o’clock the next evening. This time Henry informed the visitor that the count had gone to bed.

“Is he ill?” inquired the colonel.

“No; this is his usual hour for retiring.”

“But how can a man who is not ill go to bed at eight o’clock?”

And again he handed Henry a card.

This visit Count Vavel returned the next morning at three o’clock. At this hour, as may be supposed, every soul in the manor was still sound asleep. Only the guards on watch at the gate demanded: “Halt! Who comes there?”

On learning that the intruder was a “friend,” they allowed him to waken the porter, who thrust his frowzy head from the half-open door to ask, in surprise, what was wanted.

“Is the Herr Colonel at home?” inquired Count Vavel.

“Yes, your lordship; but he is in bed.”

“Is he ill?”

“No, your lordship; but he is in bed, of course, at this hour.”

“Why, how can a man who is not ill stay in bed until three o’clock?”

The count turned over a corner of his card, and handed it to the porter.

This, at last, the colonel understood, and left no more cards at the Nameless Castle.

The officers quartered at the manor were agreeable companions. Vicomte Leon Barthelmy was a true courtier, a brave soldier, an entertaining comrade, and a generous master. Even his enemies would have admitted that his manners were irresistible in the salon, as well as on the battle-field. Every one knew that Colonel Barthelmy was a married man—that he had a wife with whom, however, he did not live, but from whom he had not been divorced.

Susceptible feminine hearts did not risk a flirtation with the fascinating soldier, being forewarned by the canonical laws of the church, which forbade more intimate relations. There was no need to fear for so prudent and discreet a woman as the Baroness Katharina Landsknechtsschild. Her principles were very sound, and firmly grounded. She permitted no familiarities beyond a certain limit, but made no coy pretence of avoiding innocent amusements. Her affable treatment of the officers was easily explained. She had not received the gentlemen residing in the neighborhood, because they would very soon have visited the manor with a special object—they would have come as suitors for her hand. She would have been compelled to reject such offers, and would have given rise to all sorts of gossip. Moreover, these country magnates were tiresome persons; for, when they were once gathered about a gaming-table, the four ladies in a pack of cards engrossed so much of their attention that they had no thought for any of the living women about them.

The sons of Mars, on the contrary, were devoted entirely to the service of the fair sex. Many of the officers’ wives accompanied the regiment, and these helped to make up the quadrille, the mazurka, the redowa,—at that time the latest dance,—and every day saw a merry gathering of revelers.

One day there would be a series of entertaining games; another day there would be a play on a hastily improvised stage, in which the baroness herself would take a part, and win well-deserved applause by her graceful and artistic acting.

There were several skilled amateur jugglers among the merry company, who would give performances à la Bosko and Philadelphia; and others would delight the audience with the wonderful scenes of a magic lantern.

Once the baroness arranged a chase, and herself joined in the hunt after the pheasants and deer on her estate, proving herself a skilled Amazon in the saddle and in the management of her rifle. Then, the officers improvised a horse-race; and once they even got up a circus, in which all look part.

Count Vavel, in his tower, was an interested spectator of many of these amusements. There had been a time when he, too, had taken part in and enjoyed just such sports. He was a lover of the chase and of horse-racing. No one knew better than he the keen delights of a clean vault over ditches and hedges. If only he might join the merry company down yonder, he could show them some riding!

And as for hunting? He could spend whole days on the mountains, clambering after the fleet-footed chamois, following the larger game through morass and forest. He had grown up amid exhilarating sports such as these.

And the dance-music! How alluring were the strains! and how often through the day he found himself humming the melodies which had floated to him from the open windows of the manor! Once he, too, had taken pleasure in jesting with fair women until their white shoulders would shake with merry laughter. And all this he must look upon and hear at a distance, since he had made himself his own jailer!

During these weeks Marie was very restless. The sound of the trumpets startled her; the unusual noises terrified her. She whose nightly slumbers had been guarded from the barking of dogs and the crowing of fowls now was obliged to listen half the night to clarionet, horn, and piccolo, and to wonder what these people could be doing that they kept their music going until such late hours.

One circumstance, however, reconciled Marie to the excitement of these days: Ludwig spent more time with her; and though his face was as stern as ever, she could not detect in it the melancholy which cannot be concealed from the eyes of the woman who can look into the depths, of the soul.

CHAPTER II

At last, one day late in the autumn, Count Vavel received from his correspondent, Herr Mercatoris, the information that the dragoon regiment was going to change its quarters, and that the departure from Fertöszeg would be celebrated by various amusements, among them a regatta with colored lanterns on the lake and magnificent fireworks on the shore.

“We shall manage somehow to live through it,” was the count’s mental comment on the news. He knew Marie’s horror of fire—how she suffered with terror when she saw a conflagration, no matter how distant. She was even afraid of the rockets and paper dragons which were used at the celebration at the conclusion of the grape harvest every year. On the evening of the merrymaking Marie was afraid to go to bed. She begged Ludwig to close the blinds and to read to her in a loud voice, so that she might not see the light of the fireworks or hear the tumult on the lake shore. That which amused the revellers at the manor was a terror for this timid child.

And that they were amusing themselves over at the manor was beyond a doubt. The program for the evening’s entertainment was a varied one. Colonel Barthelmy was in the gayest of humors. The surprise of the evening was to conclude the entertainment, and was called on the program “The Militiaman.” Every one in the audience expected that Colonel Barthelmy, who had arranged this part of the entertainment, would produce something extremely amusing. The reality surpassed all expectations.

The figure conducted on to the stage by the colonel was no other than the little water-monster, Baroness Katharina’s protégé. He was clad in the uniform of a soldier, with a wooden sword and gun, a hat decorated with crane-feathers, a canteen at his side, and a knapsack on his back. An enormous false mustache extended from ear to ear, and a short-stemmed pipe was thrust between his lips.

“This, gentlemen and ladies, is a militiaman.” The colonel was interrupted by a burst of merriment from his audience. Even the baroness laughed immoderately, but suppressed it hastily when she remembered the telescope on the tower of the Nameless Castle.

“Poor little fellow!” she murmured, with difficulty keeping her face straight.

“Attention!” called the colonel, snapping the whip he held in his hand. “What does the militiaman do when he is in a good humor?”

A bagpipe behind the curtain now began to play a familiar air, whereupon the little monster first touched his finger to his hat, then slapped his thighs with both hands, and lifted first one foot, then the other.

The baroness hid with her fan that side of her face which was toward the neighboring castle, and joined in the uproarious laughter.

“You see, gracious baroness,” continued the colonel, “that I have accomplished what I determined I would do—made quite a man of the little fellow.”

He snapped his whip again, and called sharply:

“Now let the militiaman show us what he does when he is in an ill humor.”

The bagpipe struck up a different air. The dwarf muttered something unintelligible into his mustache, and grimaced hideously. Then he took from his tobacco-pouch flint, tinder, and steel, and struck fire in the proper manner; he thrust the burning tinder into his pipe, and pressed it down with his finger.

Tremendous applause rewarded this exhibition.

“Do you see, gracious baroness, what a complete man he is become? He can even strike fire and light a pipe!”

By this time the gnome began to understand that his antics amused the audience, and he, too, enjoyed them. For the first time an emotion was expressed on his stolid countenance; but it was not an agreeable transformation. The corners of his mouth widened until they reached his ears, which stood still farther out from his head; he closed one eye, and opened the other to its farthest extent; and pressing the stem of his pipe more firmly between his teeth, he blew the smoke and fire from the bowl like a miniature volcano. The thicker the smoke and sparks came from the pipe, the more furious became the strange creature’s glee, while the entire company shouted and clasped their hands. Even the colonel himself was amazed at the performance of his dull pupil.

“Why have we not a Hogarth among us to perpetuate this caricature?” he exclaimed delightedly.

“Horrible! I cannot bear to look at him,” said the baroness, holding her fan in front of her face. “Pray take him away, Herr Colonel—take him away.”

“Presently. Ho, there, my little man! What does the militiaman do when he sees the enemy?”

The whip snapped, and the bagpipe set up a discordant shriek, upon which the actor sprang with one bound from the stage, and vanished behind the curtain, wooden sword and gun clattering after him, while the audience showered applause on the successful instructor.

“Herr Colonel,” observed the baroness, when quiet had been restored, “I am very much afraid that your instructions will cause me some trouble in the future.”

“Why, how so?” in surprise questioned the colonel.

“You have taught a wild creature to kindle a fire, and thus aroused in him a dangerous passion. His desire to amuse himself with the dangerous element will develop into a mania, and he will end by setting fire to houses and other buildings.”

“I will tell you what to do, baroness. In order that the little monster may not play his tricks about here, give him to me; I will take him with me.”

“No; I had rather keep him here. I shall take good care, however, that he does not get hold of tinder and flint, and have him constantly watched. You have quite ruined my system of education. I taught him to kneel and fold his hands to the music of the organ; you taught him to dance and grimace to the drone of the bagpipe. You have even accustomed him to drink wine, which is unchristian.”

The company laughed at this harmless anger.

Then came the fireworks.

When the Roman candles and the fire-wheels illumined the darkness, it became impossible to control the little monster. He rushed into the thickest of the rain of fire, and tried to catch the red and blue stars in his hands. The sparks burned holes in his clothes, and he would not have escaped a severe burning himself had not some one thrown a pail of water over him. It was impossible to restrain him. He struck out with hands and feet, and bit at any one who attempted to prevent him from running into the fire. Suddenly a rocket shot in an oblique direction, and dropped into the lake. When the human beast saw this he uttered a yell, and dashed into the water. He thought that the beautiful fire belonged to him because it had fallen into his lake, and he went to hunt for it. He did not return. The baroness had search made for him; but he knew so well how to escape his pursuers that he was not seen again at the manor.

The next morning, while yet the stars were glittering in the sky, the trumpets sounded the departure of the regiment.

The sounds were familiar to Count Vavel. Even yet, when the blare of trumpets roused him from sleep, he felt as if he must hasten to the stable, saddle his horse, and buckle on his sword. But those days were past. His trusty war-horse had become used to the carriage-pole, and the keen Toledo blades were drawn from their scabbards only when they were to be oiled to prevent the rust from corroding them.

The departure of the troops removed one care from Count Ludwig’s mind: the noise and turmoil would cease, and peace would again return to the silent neighborhood.

One morning when Frau Schmidt brought her basket, as usual, to the castle, there was a letter in it for the count. He recognized the hand at once; it was from his fair neighbor at the manor.

“HERR COUNT: As I have something of the utmost importance to communicate to you, I beg that you will receive a call from me this morning before you take your usual drive. Answer when it will be convenient for you to see me.”

What did it mean? Something of the utmost importance? Why could she not have asked him to come to the manor? The count was puzzled. And how was he to answer this most singular request? He could not write it himself; was it not said that he was unable to hold a pen? He could not dictate the letter to Marie appointing a meeting with the baroness. Henry was a very shrewd fellow, but he had never learned to write.

At last Count Vavel bethought him of an expedient. He marked on the back of his card the Roman numerals XI, and trusted that the baroness would understand that she was expected at eleven o’clock. When the appointed hour drew near, curiosity began to torture the count. He could not wait indoors, but hurried into the park, where he paced restlessly to and fro amid the fallen leaves.

He listened anxiously to every sound, and consulted his watch every few minutes. At last the gate bell rang. He hastened to admit the visitor, and found that the baroness had understood his reply. He recognized her figure, for the face was closely veiled. She wore a pale-blue silk gown with wide sleeves—Marie’s favorite costume.

“It is I, Herr Count,” she said in a low tone, looking anxiously about her.

“How did you come? I did not hear the carriage,” said Count Vavel.

“I rowed across the cove—alone, because no one must know that I came. Can any one see us here?”

“No one.”

“We need not go into the house,” she continued; “I can tell you here why I came.”

Ludwig was more and more perplexed. He had believed the baroness wished to enter the Nameless Castle out of curiosity.

“My visit,” pursued the lady, “has as little conventionality about it as had yours. The magnitude of the danger which prompted yours must also excuse mine; I am come to repay the debt I owe you.”

“Danger?” repeated the count.

“Yes; danger threatens you—and some one else! Let us come farther into the park, that no one may by a possible chance overhear me.”

When they had reached a sheltered spot the lady again spoke:

“Do you know anything about Colonel Barthelmy?”

“I received the cards he left here when he called,” indifferently replied Count Vavel.

“You certainly have heard more about him,” returned the baroness, a trifle impatiently. “His domestic troubles were in all the newspapers—it was a cause célèbre. He was a major in the French army, under the Directory, but entered our service when the Empire was established. The domestic troubles I referred to occurred while he was still in France. His young and beautiful wife ran away with another man—a man who is unknown to Barthelmy, who is pursuing the fugitives over the whole world—”

“Ah! I remember now reading something about it. That is why his name seemed familiar to me.”

“I thought you must have heard something about him,” responded the baroness, in a peculiar tone. Then, with a sudden movement, she seized his hand and whispered:

“And you are the unknown who abducted Colonel Barthelmy’s wife.”

“I?” in boundless amazement ejaculated the count. Then he laughed heartily.

“Yes, you; and you are living here in seclusion with the lovely woman whose face no one is permitted to see.”

Ludwig ceased laughing, and replied very seriously; “Gracious baroness, were I the person you believe me to be, I should have been glad to meet the man who compelled me to live here in seclusion. A skilful sword-thrust or a well-aimed bullet would have released me from this prison.”

“And yet, everybody believes Count Vavel to be Ange Barthelmy’s lover,” responded the baroness.

“Do you believe it, baroness?”

“I? Perhaps—not. But Colonel Barthelmy believes it all the more firmly because you refused to see him.”

“And suppose he had seen me?”

“He would have asked you to introduce him to your—family.”

“Then he would have learned that I have no family.”

“But you could not have refused to tell him what relation you bear to the lady at the castle.”

“My answer would have been very brief had he asked the question,” was the count’s grim response.

“I know what men mean by a ‘brief’ answer; the result is usually fatal.”

“And does your ladyship imagine that I fear such a result?”

“So far as courage is concerned, I should not give any one precedence to Count Vavel. A regular duel, however, requires more than courage. Colonel Barthelmy is a soldier by profession; you are a philosopher who lives amid his studies, and whose right hand is unable to hold a pen, let alone a sword or a pistol!”

Count Vavel was touched on the spot where men are most susceptible.

“Who can tell whether I have always been a studious hermit?” he demanded proudly. “Besides, might it not be that my hand is unable only when I don’t want to use it?”

“That may be,” retorted the lady. “But Barthelmy, who is perfectly insane on the subject of his wife’s infamy, would have the advantage of you. He is suspicious of every stranger; and of all the gossip which environs you, the legend of that elopement is the mildest.”

“Indeed? This is very flattering! Probably I am also said to be a counterfeiter?”

“I am not jesting, Herr Count. While Colonel Barthelmy was my guest I was able to prevent him from taking any aggressive steps toward you; this is why you did not hear from him again after his last call on you—”

“I certainly am greatly indebted to you,” interrupted Count Vavel, with visible irony.

“You owe me no thanks, Herr Count. When a woman tries to prevent a quarrel between two men, she does so, believe me, out of pure self-love. The emotions which electrify your nerves torment ours. I could not have continued to live here had a tragic occurrence made the place memorable. That is why I prevented an encounter between you and the colonel; so you need not thank me. However, the evening before the regiment took its departure the colonel said to me: ‘I have kept my word to you, baroness; but tomorrow I cease to be your guest. I shall take steps then to learn if the mysterious lady at the Nameless Castle be Ange Barthelmy or some one else.’ ”

At these words a deep flush crimsoned Count Vavel’s face. “I should like to know how he proposes to settle that question?” he said, in a voice that trembled with suppressed rage.

“I will tell you. Just listen to the ridiculous plan which the man betrayed in his fury. He is quartered in the neighboring village to the edge of which you and a certain person drive every day. He is going to rise, with several friends, along the road; and when he meets your carriage, he is going to stop it, introduce himself, and demand if the lady by your side be Mme. Ange Barthelmy.”

Count Vavel clenched his hands and closed his lips tightly. After a brief struggle he regained command of himself, and said quietly:

“I shall, of course, reply: ‘On my word as a man of honor, this lady is not Ange Barthelmy.’ ”

“But if that does not satisfy him? Suppose he should insist on seeing the lady? Suppose he even attempts to lift the lady’s veil?”

“Then he dies!” The count gave utterance to these words in a tone that sounded more like the growl of a lion that has the neck of his prey between his teeth.

“He is capable, in his present mood, of doing anything rash,” murmured the baroness, with an expression of terror in her eyes.

“And I am capable of an equally rash act,” responded the count.

“I believe it; I have heard of such courage before. But you must not forget that you do not belong to yourself; there is some one else you must think of before you risk your life.”

Count Vavel started violently; he opened his lips as if to speak, but the baroness quickly raised her hand and interposed.

“I am not trying to pry into your secret, Herr Count; I am no spy—you must have seen that ere this. All I know is that there is under your protection a woman to whom you are everything, and who will have no one should she lose you.”

“But what can I do?” in desperation exclaimed Count Vavel. “I cannot hide in my castle until Colonel Barthelmy leaves the neighborhood. Would you have me confess to all the world that I am a coward?”

“Let me advise you, Herr Count,” with sudden resolution responded the baroness. “Turn this matter, which you look upon as a tragedy, into a capital jest. Take me to drive with you to-day instead of your—friend.”

Count Vavel suddenly burst into a loud laugh—from extreme anger to unrestrained merriment.

But the baroness did not laugh with him.

“I am in earnest, Count Vavel. Now you will understand why I came here this morning.” She drew her veil over her face, and asked: “Am I enough like her to take her place in the carriage?”

Count Vavel was astounded. The likeness to Marie was perfect. The gown, the hat, and veil were exactly like those Marie was wont to wear when she drove out with him. The daring suggestion, however, amazed him more than anything else.

“What! You, baroness? You would really venture to drive with me? Have you thought of the risk—the danger to yourself?”

“I have given it as much thought as did you when you risked coming to the manor with nothing but a walking-stick to battle with four thieves. One ought not stop to think of the risk when a danger is to be averted. This adventure may end as harmlessly as the other.”

“And suppose the colonel should by any chance see your face? No, no, baroness; there is no comparison between my venture and this plan you propose. If I had had an encounter with those thieves I might have received a wound that would soon have healed; but your pure reputation as a woman might receive a wound that would never heal.”

A bitter smile wreathed the lady’s lips as she replied: “Could any wound that I might receive increase the burden on my heart?” She laughed harshly, then asked suddenly: “Perhaps you are afraid the colonel will think I am the mysterious lady of the Nameless Castle?”

Count Vavel’s face reddened to the roots of his hair.

Again the lady laughed, then said apologetically: “Pardon me, but the idea amused me. But, to return to Colonel Barthelmy, he is going very shortly to Italy with his regiment; therefore, I need not care what fables he thinks of me—or repeats. The few persons whose opinion I care for will not believe him; as for the others—pah! Come, your hand on it! Let us perpetrate this joke. If I am willing to run the risk, you surely need not hesitate.”

And yet he hesitated.

“Don’t speak of this plan of yours as a mischievous trick, baroness,” he said earnestly. “It is a great, a noble sacrifice—so great, indeed, that living woman could not perform a greater—to be willing to blush with shame while innocent. She who blushes for her love does not suffer; but to flush with shame out of friendship must be a torture like that endured by martyrs.”

“Very well, then; let it be a sacrifice—as you will! I am a willing victim! I owe you a debt of gratitude; I want to pay it. Now go and order the carriage; I will wait here for you.”

Every drop of blood in his body rebelled against his accepting this offer. A woman rescue a strong man from a threatened danger! And at what a risk!

“Well,” a trifle impatiently exclaimed the baroness, as he still lingered, “aren’t you going to fetch your cloak? I am ready for the drive.”

Without another word the count turned and strode toward the castle.

Marie was satisfied with the excuse he made for not taking her with him as usual: he said he had urgent business in the neighboring village, and would have to drive there alone.

Then he ordered Henry to harness the horses to the carriage, and drive down to the gate, where he would await him.

He found the baroness waiting for him where he had left her.

“Well,” she began, when he came near enough to hear her, “have you decided to take me with you?”

“No.”

“Then you are going to take the lady?”

“No.”

“Not? Then who is going with you?”

“These two pistols,” replied the count, flinging back his cloak and revealing the weapons thrust into his pocket. “With these two companions I am going to meet the gentleman who is so determined to see the face of the veiled lady. I shall show him a lady whose face is not a subject of gossip.”

The baroness uttered a cry of terror, and seized Count Vavel’s hand.

“No, no; you shall not go alone. Listen. I was prepared for just such a decision on your part, so I wrote this letter. If you persist in going alone to meet the colonel, I shall hurry back to the manor, send my groom on the swiftest horse I own with this letter to Colonel Barthelmy. Read it.”

She unfolded the letter she had taken from her pocket, and held it so that Count Vavel might read, without taking it in his hands:

In speechless amazement Count Vavel looked down at the baroness, who calmly folded the letter and returned it to her pocket.

“Now you may go if you like,” she said coolly, “and I, too, shall do as I like! The colonel will then have written proof to justify him in dragging my name in the dust!”

The count gazed long and earnestly into the lovely face turned defiantly toward him. What was said by those glowing eyes, what was expressed by those lips trembling with excitement, could not be mere sport. There is only one name for the emotion which urges a woman to risk so much for a man; and if Count Vavel guessed the name, then there was nothing for him to do but offer his arm to the lady and say:

“Come, baroness, we will go together.”

When the count assisted his veiled companion into the carriage, and took his seat by her side, not even Henry could have told that it was not his young mistress from the castle who was going to drive, as usual, with her guardian.

It was with a singular feeling that Count Vavel looked at the woman beside him, to whom he was bound for one hour by the strongest, most dangerous of ties. Only for one hour! For this one hour the woman belonged to him as wholly, as entirely as the soul belongs to the living human being. And afterward? Afterward she would be no more to him than is the vanished soul to the dead human being.

The carriage had arrived at the boundary of the neighboring village, where the usual turn was made for the homeward drive, and they had not yet seen any one. Had Colonel Barthelmy’s words been merely an idle threat?

Henry knew that he was not to drive beyond this point; he mechanically turned the horses’ heads in the homeward direction, as he had done every day for years.

On the return drive the carriage always stopped at the edge of the forest, where a shaded path led through the dense shrubbery to a cleared space some distance from the highway. This was the spot for their daily promenade.

The count and his companion had gone but a short distance along the path when they saw coming toward them three men in uniform. They were cavalry officers. The two in the rear had on white cloaks; the one in front was without, an outer garment—merely his close-fitting uniform coal.

“That is Barthelmy,” whispered the baroness, pressing the arm on which she was leaning.

The count’s expression of calm indifference did not change. He walked with a firm step toward the approaching officers.

Very soon they stood face to face.

The colonel was a tall, distinguished-looking man; he carried his head well upright, and every movement spoke of haughty self-confidence and pride.

“Herr Count Vavel, I believe?” he began, halting in front of Ludwig and his companion. “Allow me to introduce myself; I am Colonel Vicomte Leon Barthelmy.”

Count Vavel murmured something which gave the colonel to understand that he (the count) was very glad to learn the gentleman’s name.

“I have long desired to make your acquaintance,” continued the colonel (his companions had halted several paces distant). “I was so unfortunate as not to find you at home the three calls I made at your castle. Now, however, I shall take this opportunity to say to you what I wanted to say then. First, however, let me introduce my friends,”—waving his hand toward the two officers,—“Captain Kriegeisen and Lieutenant Zagodics, of Emperor Alexander’s dragoons.”

Count Vavel again gave utterance to his pleasure on making the acquaintance of the colonel’s friends. Then he said courteously:

“In what way can I serve you, Herr Colonel?”

“In a very simple manner, Herr Count,” responded the colonel. “I have had the peculiar misfortune which sometimes overtakes a married man; my wife deceived me, and ran away with her lover, whom I do not even know. As mine is not one of those phlegmatic natures which can meekly tolerate such an indignity, I am searching for the fugitives—for what purpose I fancy you can guess. For four years my quest has been fruitless; I have been unable to find a trace of the guilty pair. A lucky chance at last led me to this secluded corner of the earth, and here I learned that—but, to be brief, Herr Count, I owe it to my heart and to my honor to ask you this question: Is not this lady by your side, who is always closely veiled, Ange Barthelmy, my wife?”

“Herr Vicomte Leon de Barthelmy,” calmly replied Count Vavel, “I give you my word of honor as a cavalier that this lady never was your wife.”

The colonel laughed in a peculiar manner.

“Your word of honor, Herr Count, would be entirely satisfactory in all other questions save those relating to the fair sex—and to war. You will excuse me, therefore, if I take the liberty to doubt your assertion in this case, and request you to prove that my suspicions are at fault. Without this proof I will not move from this spot.”

“Then I am very sorry for you, Herr Colonel,” returned Count Vavel, “but I shall be compelled to leave you and your suspicions in possession of this spot.”

He made as if he would pass onward; but the colonel politely but with decision barred the path.

“I must request that you wait a little longer, Herr Count,” he said, his face darkening.

“And why should I?” demanded the count.

“To convince me that the lady on your arm is not my wife,” was the reply, in an excited tone.

“You will have to remain unconvinced,” in an equally excited tone retorted Count Vavel; and for a brief instant it was a question which of the two enraged men would strike the first blow.

The threatening scene was suddenly concluded by the baroness, who flung back her veil, exclaiming: “Here, Colonel Barthelmy, you may convince yourself that I am not your wife.”

Leon Barthelmy started in amazement, and hastily laid his hand against his lips as if to repress the words which had rushed to them. Then he bowed with exaggerated courtesy, and said: “I most humbly beg your pardon, Herr Count Vavel. This lady is not Ange Barthelmy. These gentlemen are witnesses that I have asked your pardon in the proper form.”

The colonel’s companions, who had come hastily forward at the threatened conflict between their superior and the count, were gazing in a peculiar manner at the lady whose hospitality they had so lately enjoyed. Colonel Barthelmy also, although he bowed with elaborate courtesy before the baroness, cast upon her a glance that was full of insulting scorn.

The situation had changed so rapidly—as when a sudden flash of lightning illumines the darkness of night; and like the electric flash a light sped into Vavel’s heart and illumined it with a delicious, a heavenly warmth that made it throb madly. But only for an instant. Then he realized that this woman who had dared everything for his sake had been insulted by the glance of scorn and derision.

He had now lost all control of himself. He snatched a pistol from his pocket, directed the muzzle toward Colonel Barthelmy’s sneering face, and said in a voice that quivered with savage fury:

“I demand that you beg this lady’s pardon.”

“You do?” coolly returned the colonel, still smiling, and gazing calmly into the muzzle of the pistol.

“Yes—or I will blow out your brains!”

The two officers accompanying the colonel drew their swords. The baroness uttered a cry of terror, and flung herself on Vavel’s breast.

“I presume you will allow me to inquire, first, what relation this lady bears to you?”

Colonel Barthelmy asked the question in measured tones; and without an instant’s hesitation came Count Vavel’s reply:

“The lady is my betrothed wife.”

The sneer vanished from the colonel’s lips, and the swords of his companions were returned to their scabbards.

“I hasten to apologize,” said the colonel. “Accept, madame, my deepest reverence, and do not refuse to forgive the insulting scorn my ignorance caused me to express. Permit me to convince you of my sincere homage, by this salute.”

He bent his head and pressed his lips to one of the lady’s hands, which were clasped about Count Vavel’s arm. Then, with his helmet still in his hand, he turned to Count Vavel, and added: “Are you satisfied?”

“Yes,” was the curt reply.

“Then let us shake hands—without malice. Accept my sincerest congratulations. To you, baroness, I give thanks for the lesson you have taught me this morning.”

He bowed once more, then stepped to one side, indicating that the way was clear.

The baroness drew her veil over her face, and, clinging tremblingly to the arm of her escort, walked by his side back to the highway, the three officers following at a respectful distance.

When they emerged from the forest they saw the three horses which had been left by the colonel and his companions in charge of the grooms. Henry must have told the gentlemen where to find his master.

With what different emotions Count Vavel returned to the castle! The dreamer in his slumbers had given utterance to words which betrayed what he had been dreaming, and he compelled the vision to abide with him even after he had wakened. He felt that he had the right to do what he had done. This woman loved him as only a woman can love; and what he had done had only been his duty, for he loved her! What he had said was no falsehood—the words had not been forced from him merely to preserve her honor; they were the truth.

Count Vavel stopped the carriage at the park gate, assisted his companion to alight, and sent Henry on to the castle with the horses.

“What have you done?” in a deeply agitated voice exclaimed the baroness, when they were alone in the park.

“I gave expression to the feeling which is in my heart.”

“And do you realize what that has done?”

“What has it done?”

“It has made it impossible for us to meet again—for us ever to speak again to each other.”

“I cannot see it in that light.”

“You could were you to give it but a moment’s serious thought. I do not ask what the mysterious lady at the castle is to you; I know, however, that you must be everything to her. Pray don’t believe me cruel enough to rob her of her whole world. I cannot ask you to believe a lie—I cannot pretend that you are nothing to me. I have allowed you to look too deeply into my heart to deny my feelings. But there is something besides love in my heart! it is pride. I am too proud to take you from the woman to whom you are bound—no matter by what ties. Therefore, we must not meet again in this life; we may meet again in another world! Pray do not come any farther with me; I can easily find the way to my boat. No one at the manor knows of my absence. I must be careful to return as I came—unseen. And now, one request: Do not try to see me again. Should you do so, it will compel me to flee from the neighborhood. Adieu!”

She drew her veil closer over her face, and passed swiftly with noiseless steps through the gateway.

Ludwig Vavel stood where she had left him, and looked after her until she vanished from his sight amid the trees. Then he turned and walked slowly toward the castle.

CHAPTER III

Count Vavel did not see Marie, after his return from the drive with the baroness, until dinner. He had not ventured into her presence until then, when he fancied he had sufficiently mastered his emotions so that his countenance would not betray him. The consciousness of his disloyalty to the young girl troubled him, and he could not help but tremble when he came into her presence. It was not permitted to him to bestow his heart on any one. Did he not belong, soul and body, to this innocent creature, whom he had sworn to defend with his life?

From that hour, however, Marie’s behavior toward him was changed. He could see that she strove to be attentive and obedient, but she was shy and reserved. Did she suspect the change in him? or could it be possible that she had seen the baroness driving with him? It was very late when her bell signaled that she had retired, and when Ludwig entered the outer room, as usual, he found a number of books lying about on the table. Evidently the young girl had been studying.

The next morning Ludwig came at the usual hour to conduct her to the carriage.

“Thank you, but I don’t care to drive to-day,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Riding out in a carriage does not benefit me.”

“When did you discover this?”

“Some time ago.”

Ludwig looked at her in astonishment. What was the meaning of this? Could she know that some one else had occupied her place in the carriage yesterday?

“And will you not go with me tomorrow?”

“If you will allow me, I shall stay at home.”

“Is anything the matter with you, Marie?”

“Nothing. I don’t like the jolting of the carriage.”

“Then I shall sell the horses.”

“It might be well to do so—if you don’t want them for your own use. I shall take my exercise in the garden.”

“And in the winter?”

“Then I will promenade in the court, and make snow images, as the farmers’ children do.”

And the end of the matter was that Ludwig sold the horses, and Marie’s outdoor exercises were restricted to the garden. Moreover, she studied and wrote all day long.

When she went into the garden, Josef, the gardener’s boy, was sent elsewhere so long as she chose to remain among the flowers.

One afternoon Josef had been sent, as usual, to perform some task in the park while Marie promenaded in the garden. He was busily engaged raking together the fallen leaves, when Marie suddenly appeared by his side, and said breathlessly:

“Please take this letter.”

The youth, who was speechless with astonishment and confusion at sight of the lady he had been forbidden to look at, slowly extended his hand to comply with her request when Count Vavel, who had swiftly approached, unseen by either the youth or Marie, with one hand seized the letter, and with the other sent Josef flying across the sward so rapidly that he fell head over heels into some shrubbery.

Then the count thrust the letter into his pocket, and without a word drew the young girl’s hand through his arm, and walked swiftly with her into the castle. The count conducted his charge into the library. He had not yet spoken a word. His face was startlingly pale with anger and terror.

When they two were alone within the four walls of the library, he said, fixing a reproachful glance on her:

“You were going to send a letter to some one?”

The young girl calmly returned his glance, but did not open her lips.

“To whom are you writing, Marie?”

Marie smiled sadly, and drooped her head.

Vavel then drew the letter from his pocket, and read the address:

“To our beautiful and kind-hearted neighbor.”

The count looked up in surprise.

“You are writing to Baroness Landsknechtsschild!” he exclaimed, not without some confusion.

“I did not know her name; that is why I addressed it so.”

Vavel turned the letter in his hands, and saw that the seal had been stamped with the crest which was familiar to all the world.

He hurriedly crushed it into bits, and, unfolding the letter, read:

When he had read the touching epistle, he buried his face in his hands, and a bitter sob burst from his tortured heart.

Marie looked sorrowfully at his quivering frame, and sighed heavily.

“Oh, Marie! To think you should write this! Nothing at all to me!” murmured the young man, in a choking voice.

“’Nothing at all,’ ” in a low tone repeated Marie.

Vavel moved swiftly to her side, and, looking down upon her with his burning eyes still filled with tears, asked in an unsteady voice:

“What do you want, Marie? Tell me what you wish me to do.”

Marie softly took his hand in both her own, and said tremulously:

“I want you to give me a companion—a mother. I want some one to love,—a woman that I can love,—one who will love me and command me. I will be an obedient and dutiful daughter to such a woman. I will never grieve her, never disobey her. I am so very, very lonely!”

“And am not I, too, alone and lonely, Marie?” sadly responded Vavel.

“Yes, yes. I know that, Ludwig. It is your pale, melancholy face that oppresses me and makes me sad. Day after day I see the pale face which my cruel, curse-laden destiny has buried here with me. I know that you are unhappy, and that I am the cause of it.”

“For heaven’s sake, Marie! who has given you such fancies?”

“The long, weary nights! Oh, how much I have learned from the darkness! It was not merely caprice that prompted me to ask you once what death meant. Had you questioned me more fully then, I should have confessed something to you. That time, when you rescued me from death, you gave my name to Sophie Botta, who also took upon herself my fate. I don’t know what became of her. If she died in my stead, may God comfort her! If she still lives, may God bless and help her to reign in my stead! But give me the name of Sophie Botta; give me the clothes of a working-girl; give me God’s free world, which she enjoyed. Let me become Sophie Botta in reality, and let me wash clothes with the washerwomen at the brook. If Sophie and I exchanged lives, let the exchange become real. Let me learn what it is to live, or—let me learn what it is to die.”

In speechless astonishment Count Vavel had listened to this passionate outburst. It was the first time he had ever heard the gentle girl speak so excitedly.

“Madame,” he said with peculiar intonation, when she had ceased speaking, “I am now convinced that I am the guardian of the most precious treasure on this terrestrial ball. Henceforward I shall watch over you with redoubled care.”

“That will be unnecessary,” proudly returned the young girl. “If you wish to feel certain that I will patiently continue to abide in this Nameless Castle, then make a home here for me—bring some happiness into these rooms. If I see that you are happy I shall be content.”

“Marie, Marie, the day of my perfect happiness only awaits the dawn of your own! And that yours will come I firmly believe. But don’t look for it here, Marie. Don’t ask for impossibilities. Marie, were my own mother, whom I worshiped, still living, I could not bring her within these walls to learn our secret.”

“The woman who loves will not betray a secret.”

For an instant Ludwig did not reply; then he said:

“And if it were true that some one loves me as you fancy, could I ask her to bury herself here—here where there is no intercourse with the outside world? No, no, Marie; we cannot expect any one else to become an occupant of this tomb—the gates of which will not open until the trump of deliverance sounds.”

“And will it be long before that trump sounds, Ludwig?”

“I believe—nay, I know it must come very soon. The signs of the times are not deceptive. Our resurrection may be nearer than we imagine; and until then, Marie, let us endure with patience.”

Marie pressed her guardian’s hand, and drew a long sigh.

“Yes; we will endure—and wait,” she repeated. “And now, give me back my letter.”

“Why do you want it, Marie?”

“I shall keep it, and sometime send it to the proper address—when the angel of deliverance sounds his trump.”

“May God hasten his coming!” fervently appended the count.

But he did not give her the letter.

Count Vavel now rarely ventured beyond the gate of the Nameless Castle. The weather had become stormy, and a severe frost had robbed the garden of its beauties. The very elements seemed to have combined against the dwellers in the castle. Even the lake suddenly began to extend its limits, overflowing its banks, and inundating meadows and gardens. Marie’s little pleasure-garden suffered with the rest of the flooded lands, and threatened to become an unsightly swamp.

Count Vavel, knowing how Marie delighted to ramble amid her flowers, determined to protect the garden from further destruction. Laborers were easily secured. The numerous families of working-people who had been rendered homeless by the inundation besieged the castle for assistance and work, and none were turned empty-handed away. A small army was put to work to construct an embankment that would prevent further encroachment upon the garden by the water, while to Herr Mercatoris the count sent a liberal sum of money to be distributed among the sufferers by the flood.

This gift renewed the correspondence between the castle and the parsonage, which had been dropped for several months.

The pastor, in acknowledging the receipt of the money, wrote:

“The flood has made a new survey of the lake necessary, as the evil cannot be remedied until it has been determined what obstructs the outlet. Our surveyor made a calculation as to the probable cost of the work, and found that it would require an enormous sum of money—almost five thousand guilders! Where was all this money to come from? The puzzling question was answered by that angel from heaven, Baroness Landsknechtsschild. When she heard of the sufferings of the poor people who had been driven from their homes by the inundation, she offered to supply the entire sum necessary. Now, it seems, something besides the money is required for the undertaking.

“The surveyor, in order to calculate the distances which cannot be measured by the chain, needs a superior telescope, and such a glass would cost two or three thousand guilders more. As your lordship is the owner of a telescope, I take it upon myself to beg the loan of it—if your lordship can spare it to the surveyor for a short time.”

The next day Count Vavel sent his telescope to the parsonage, with the message that it was a present to the surveyor. Then, that he might not be again tempted to look out upon the world and its people, the count closed the tower windows.