Part 55 (2/2)

She seemed absent-minded, went to her rooms at once, and locked herself in. Then her bell rang violently--the servants who were consulting together below scattered, the maids darted up the main staircase, the men up a side flight.

”I want the coachman, Martin!” was the unexpected order.

”Martin isn't here,” the footman ventured to answer--”as we did not know ...”

”Then send for him!” replied the countess imperiously. She did not appear even to notice the implied reproof. Then she permitted the attendant to make a fire on the hearth, for it was a raw, damp day in early spring, and after her stay in Cannes, the weather seemed like Siberia.

Half an hour elapsed. Meanwhile the maids were unpacking, and the countess was arranging a quant.i.ty of letters she had brought with her.

They were all numbered, and of ancient date. Among them was one from Freyer, written four weeks previously, containing only the words:

”Even in death, Josepha has filled a mother's place to our child--she has rested in the chapel with him since this morning. I think you will not object to her being buried there.

”Joseph.”

The countess again glanced at the letter, her eyes rested on the errors in orthography. Such tragical information, with so terrible a reproach between the lines--and the effect--a ludicrous one! She would gladly have effaced the mistakes in order not to be ashamed of having given this man so important a part in the drama of her life--but they stood there with the distinctness of a boy's unpractised hand. A man who could not even write correctly! She had not noticed it before, he wrote rarely and always very briefly--or had she possessed no eyes for his faults at that time? Yes, she must have been blind, utterly blind. She had not answered the letter. Now she tore it up and threw it into the fire. Josepha's death would have been a deliverance to her, had she not a few weeks later received another letter which she now read once more, panting for breath. But, however frequently she perused its contents, she found only that old Martin entreated her to return--Josepha had ”blabbed.”

That one word in the stiff hand of the faithful old servant, which looked as if it might have been scrawled with a match upon paper redolent of the odors of the stable, had so startled the countess that she left Cannes by the first train, and traveled day and night to reach home. A nervous restlessness made the sheet tremble in her hand as she thrust it into the flames. Then she paced restlessly to and fro. Martin was keeping her waiting so long.

A little supper had been hurriedly prepared and was now served. But the countess scarcely touched the food and, complaining that the dining-room was cold, crept back to her boudoir. At last, about half past nine, Martin was announced. He had gone to bed and they had been obliged to rouse him.

”Is Your Highness going out?” asked the footman, who could not understand the summons to Martin.

”If I am, you will receive orders for the carriage,” replied his mistress, and a flash from her eyes silenced the servant. ”Let Martin come in!” she added in a harsh, imperious tone.

The man opened the door.

”You are dismissed for to-night. The lights can be put out,” she added.

Martin stood, hat in hand, awaiting his mistress' commands. A few minutes pa.s.sed, then the countess noiselessly went to the door to see that the adjoining rooms were empty and that no one was listening. When she returned she drew the heavy curtains over the door to deaden every sound. Then her self-control gave way and rus.h.i.+ng to the old coachman she grasped his hand. ”Martin, for Heaven's sake, what has happened?”

Tears glittered in Martin's eyes, as he saw his mistress' alarm, and he took her trembling hands as gently as if they were the reins of a fiery blooded horse, on which a curb has been placed for the first time.

”Ho--ho--dear Countess, only keep quiet, quiet,” he said in the soothing tones used to his frightened steeds: ”All is not lost! I didn't let myself be caught, and there's no proof of what Josepha blabbed.”

”So they tried to catch you? Tell me”--she was trembling--”how did they come to you?”

”Well,” said Martin clumsily, ”this is how it was. They seem to have driven Josepha into a corner. At her funeral the cook told me that just before she died, two strangers came to the house and had a long conversation with the sick woman. When the hare she was ordered to cook was done, she carried it up. But the people in the room were talking so loud that she didn't dare go in and stood at the door listening.

Something was said about the countess' favor and a crime, and Josepha was terribly excited. Suddenly she heard nothing more, Josepha stammered a few unintelligible words, and the gentlemen came out with faces as red as fire. They left the hare in the lurch--and off they went. Josepha died the same night. Then I thought they might be the Barons von Wildenau, because their coachman had often tried to pump me about our countess, and I said to myself, 'now I'll do the same to him.' And sure enough I found out that the gentlemen had gone away, and where? To Prankenberg!”

The countess turned pale and sank into an arm-chair. ”There, there--Your Highness, don't be troubled,” Martin went on calmly--”that will do them no good, the church books don't lie open on the tavern tables like bills of fare, and the old pastor will not let everybody meddle with them.”

”The old pastor?” cried the countess despairingly--”he is dead, and since my father, the prince, has grown weak-minded, the patronage has lapsed to the government. The new pastor has no motive for showing us any consideration.”

”So the old pastor is dead? H'm, H'm!” Martin for the first time shook his head anxiously. ”If one could only get a word from His Highness the Prince--just to find out whether the marriage was really entered in the record.”

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