"Oh, it is only now and then that I feel thus," she murmurs. "Shall I tell you the cause of my wretched mood?"

"Utter fatigue, the natural consequence of yesterday's pleasures."

"Not at all. I accidentally came upon the picture of my cousin Ada to-day. Do you remember her? There she is." She hands him a photograph.

"Exquisitely beautiful, is it not?"

"Yes," he says, looking at the picture; "the eyes are bewitching, and there is such womanly tenderness, such delicate refinement, about the mouth."

"Nothing could surpa.s.s Ada," says Countess Lori; "she was a saint, good, self-sacrificing, not a trace in her of frivolity or selfishness."

"And yet she married Hugo Reinsfeld, if I am not mistaken?" says Lato.

"I have heard nothing of her lately. News from your world rarely reaches me."

"No one mentions her now," Lori murmurs. "She married without love; not from vanity as I did, but she sacrificed herself for her family,--sisters unprovided for, father old, no money. She was far better than I, and for a long time she honestly tried to do her duty,----and so she finally had to leave her husband!"

The Countess stops; a long pause ensues. The steps of the pa.s.sers-by sound through the languid September air; an Italian hurdy-gurdy is grinding out the lullaby from "Trovatore," sleepy and sentimental. The clatter from the barracks interrupts it now and then. A sunbeam slips through the window-shade into the half-light of the room and gleams upon the buhl furniture.

"Well, she had the courage of her opinions," the Countess begins afresh at last. "She left her husband and lives with--well, with another man,--good heavens! you knew him too, Niki Gladnjik, in Switzerland; they live there for each other in perfect seclusion. He adores her; the world--our world, the one I do not want to meet at your ball--ignores Ada, but I write to her sometimes, and she to me. I have been reading over her letters to-day. She seems to be very happy, enthusiastically happy, so happy that I envy her; but I am sorry for her, for--you see, Niki really loves her, and wants to marry her--they have been waiting two years for the divorce which her husband opposes; and Niki is consumptive; you understand, if he should die before----"

Lato's heart throbs fast at his cousin's tale. At this moment the door opens, and Count Wodin enters.

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII.

AT LAST.

Flammingen's affairs are satisfactorily adjusted. Treurenberg is relieved of that anxiety. He can devote his thoughts to his own complications, as he rides back from X---- to Dobrotschau.

The dreamy lullaby from "Trovatore" still thrills his nerves, and again and again he recalls the pair living happily in Switzerland. He sees their valley in his mental vision enclosed amid lofty mountains,--walls erected by G.o.d Himself to protect that green Paradise from the intrusion and cruelty of mankind,--walls which shut out the world and reveal only the blue heavens. How happy one could be in that green seclusion, forgotten by the world! In fancy he breathes the fresh Alpine air laden with the wholesome scent of the pines; upon his ear there falls the rushing murmur of the mountain-stream. He sees a charming home on a mountain-slope, and at the door stands a lovely woman dressed in white, with large, tender eyes filled with divine sympathy. She is waiting for some one's return; whence does he come?

From the nearest town, whither he is forced to go from time to time to adjust his affairs, but whither she never goes; oh, no! People pain her,--people who despise and envy her. But what matters it? He opens his arms to her, she flies to meet him; ah, what bliss, what rapture!

His horse stumbles slightly; he rouses with a start. A shudder thrills him, and, as in the morning, he is horrified at himself. Will it always be thus? Can he not relax his hold upon himself for one instant without having every thought rush in one direction, without being possessed by one intense longing? How can he thus desecrate Olga's image?

Meanwhile, the expected guests have arrived at Dobrotschau. They came an hour ago,--three carriage-loads of distinction from, Vienna, some of them decorated with feudal t.i.tles. A very aristocratic party will a.s.semble at table in Dobrotschau to-day. Countess Weiseneck, a born Grinzing, wife of a rather disgraceful _mauvais sujet_, whose very expensive maintenance she contests paying, and from whom she has been separated for more than a year; Countess Mayenfeld, _ne_ Gerstel, the wife of a gentleman not quite five feet in height, who is known in Vienna by the _sobriquet_ of "the numismatician." When his betrothal to the wealthy Amanda Gerstel was announced, society declared that he had chosen his bride to augment his collection of coins. His pa.s.sion for collecting coins enables this knightly aristocrat to endure with philosophy the cold shoulders which his nearest relatives turned to him after his marriage; moreover, he lives upon excellent terms with his wizened little wife. One more couple with a brand-new but high-sounding t.i.tle; then an unmarried countess, with short hair and a masculine pa.s.sion for sport,--an acquaintance made at a watering-place; then Baron Kilary, the cleverest business-man among Vienna aristocrats, who is always ready to eat oysters and _pte de foie gras_ at any man's table, without, however, so far forgetting himself as to require his wife and daughter to visit any one of his entertainers who is socially his inferior. The famous poet, Paul Angelico Orchys, and little Baron Knigsfeld, complete the list of arrivals.

The first greetings are over; ended also is the running to and fro of lady's-maids looking for mislaid handbags, with the explanations of servants, who, having carried the trunks to the wrong rooms, are trying to make good their mistakes. All is quiet. The ladies and gentlemen are seated at small tables in a shady part of the park, drinking tea and fighting off a host of wasps that have attacked the delicacies forming part of the afternoon repast.

The castle is empty; the sound of distant voices alone falls on Lato's ear as he returns from his expedition to X---- and goes to his room, desirous only of deferring as long as possible the playing of his part in this tiresome entertainment. The first thing to meet his eyes on his writing-table is a letter addressed to himself. He picks it up; the envelope is stamped with a coronet and Selina's monogram.

He tears the letter open; it encloses nothing save a package of bank-notes,--eighteen hundred guilders in Austrian currency.

Lato's first emotion is anger. What good will the wretched money do him now? How rejoiced he is that he no longer needs it, that he can return it within the hour to Selina! The address arrests his attention; there is something odd about it. Is it Selina's handwriting? At first sight he had thought it was, but now, upon a closer inspection can it be his mother-in-law's hand? Is she trying to avoid a domestic scandal by atoning thus for her daughter's harshness? He tosses the money aside in disgust. Suddenly a peculiar fragrance affects him agreeably. What is it?--a faint odour of heliotrope. Could it be----? His downcast eyes discover a tiny bunch of faded purple blossoms lying on the floor almost at his feet. He stoops, picks it up, and kisses it pa.s.sionately: it is the bunch of heliotrope which Olga wore on her breast at breakfast. It is she who has cared for him, who has thought of him!

But instantly, after the first access of delight, comes the reaction.

How could Olga have known? Selina, in her irritation, may have proclaimed his request to the entire household; the servants may be discussing in the kitchen Count Treurenberg's application to his wife for eighteen hundred guilders, and her angry refusal to grant them to him. He clinches his fist and bites his lip, when on a sudden he recalls the rustle of a robe in the next room, which he thought he heard at one time during his interview with Selina. The blood mounts to his forehead. Olga had been in the library; she had heard him talking with his wife. And if she had heard him ask Selina for the money, she had also heard---- Ah! He buries his face in his hands.

The afternoon tea has been enjoyed; the ladies have withdrawn to their rooms to "arm themselves for the fray," as Paul Angelico expresses it; the gentlemen have betaken themselves to the billiard-room, where they are playing a game, as they smoke the excellent cigars which Baron Kilary has ordered a lackey to bring them.

Lato has wandered out into the park. He is not quite himself; the ground beneath his feet seems uncertain. He leans against the trunk of a tree, always pondering the same question, "What if she heard?"

He turns involuntarily into the garden-path where, but a short time since, he had soothed her agitation and dried her tears. There, on the rough birchen bench, something white gleams. Is it----?

He would fain flee, but he cannot; he stands as if rooted to the spot.

She turns her face towards him, and recognizes him. A faint colour flushes her cheek, and in her eyes, which rest full upon him, there is a heavenly light.

"Lato!" she calls. Is that her voice sounding so full and soft? She rises and approaches him. He has never before seen her look so beautiful. Her slender figure is erect as a young fir; she carries her head like a youthful queen whose brow is crowned for the first time with the diadem. She stands beside him; her presence thrills him to his very soul.

"Olga," he murmurs at last, "was it you who left the money on my table?

How did you know that I wanted it?" he asks, bluntly, almost authoritatively.

She is silent.

"Olga, Olga, were you in the library while----?"

She nods.

"And you heard all,--everything?"

"Yes."

"Olga!" His eyes are riveted upon her face in what is almost horror.

"Olga,--what now?"

"I cannot bear to see you suffer," she murmurs, scarce audibly.

Did he extend his arms to her? He could not himself tell; but what he has dreamed has happened,--he clasps her to his breast, his lips meet hers; his anguish is past; wings seem to be given him wherewith to soar to heaven.

But only for an instant is he thus beguiled; then reality in its full force bursts upon him. He unclasps the dear arms from his neck, presses one last kiss upon the girlish hand before he releases it, and then turns and walks away with a firm tread, without looking round, and in the full consciousness of the truth,--the consciousness that no wings are his, and that the heavy burden which has weighed him down is doubly heavy now.

CHAPTER x.x.xIX.

THE DINNER.

Taken altogether, Fainacky may be but a very ordinary pattern of a man, but as a _matre de plaisir_ in the arrangement of a _fte_ he is unrivalled. A more exquisite table than that around which the twenty people are a.s.sembled who form the rehearsing party for Harry's betrothal festival it would be difficult to imagine. The only criticism that can be made is that the guests are rather far apart; but who could have foreseen that at the last moment four people would be lacking? The Paul Leskjewitsches, with their niece, sent regrets, and Olga, just before dinner, was obliged to retire with a severe headache, to which she succ.u.mbed in spite of her aunt's exhortations to her "not to mind it." Lato is present; he is indifferent as to where his hours drag past. He is determined to prevent Olga's being made the subject of discussion, and his social training, with the numbness sure to ensue upon great mental agitation, stands him in stead; he plays his part faultlessly. Now and then the consciousness of his hopeless misery flashes upon him, then it fades again; he forgets all save the present moment, and he scans everything about him with keen observation, as if he had no part or parcel in it, but were looking at it all as at another world.

Yes, the table is charmingly decorated; anything more tasteful or more correct in every respect could not be imagined; but the people gathered about this sparkling board, never before has he seen them so clearly or judged them so severely.

His contempt is specially excited by his social equals. Fritz Mayenfeld, "the numismatician," does not long occupy his attention. In spite of his rank, he has always manifested thoroughly plebeian instincts; his greed of gain is notorious; and he looks, and is, entirely at home in the Harfink domestic atmosphere. The descent of the other aristocrats present, however,--of Kilary, of the short-haired Countess, and of the affected Count Fermor,--is tolerably evident in their faces, and they all seem determined to a.s.sert their aristocratic prestige in the same manner,--by impertinence.

Lato is conscious of a horror of his own caste as he studies these degenerate members of it. He turns his attention to the three guests from Komaritz,--the Countess Zriny, Hedwig, and Harry. The old canoness, who is seated on his right, provokes his smile. The superb condescension with which, for love of her nephew, she treats "these people;" the formal courtesy with which she erects an insurmountable barrier between them and herself; the morsels of liberalism which she scatters here and there in her conversation for their comfort and delectation,--all are worthy of the most enthusiastic praise.