Part 26 (2/2)
It seemed as if G.o.d had heard his prayer, and taken compa.s.sion on his pure, unselfish spirit, and sent him a.s.sistance. A loud knocking at the door aroused him suddenly from his gloomy thoughts, and he hastened to open it.
A veiled lady stood there, wrapped in furs, and attended by a servant in rich livery. In fluent French, which it could be perceived, however, was not her native tongue, she inquired whether, as she had been told, Herr von Brink, Tottleben's adjutant, resided there. As Bertram answered this question in the affirmative, but added, that Herr von Brink was in the habit of not returning from the general's quarters before evening, she added, in a decided tone, ”Well, then, I will wait for him.”
Without deeming Bertram's consent necessary, she entered the hall and motioned to her servant to remain at the door.
After a pause, there ensued between the two one of those superficial, ceremonious conversations, the usual refuge of those who have nothing to say to each other; but the evident uneasiness and confusion of the young lady prevented her from joining freely in it. Her large, bright eyes strayed restlessly around the room. A hectic flush alternated on her cheeks with deathly pallor, and the smile, which occasionally played around her lips, seemed but a painful expression of mental suffering. Suddenly she raised her head, as if determined no longer to bear this constraint, or submit to the fetters of conventionality.
”Sir,” said she, in a tone vibrating with excitement and anxiety, ”you will excuse my asking you a question, on the answer to which depends my future happiness, my life, indeed--to obtain which I have travelled from St. Petersburg here. I have just left my carriage in which I performed the journey from that city. You can therefore judge how important the cause of this undertaking is to me, and what an influence it may have on my whole existence. Its object lies in the question I am about to put to you.”
Bertram took pity on her painful agitation. ”Ask” he said, ”and, on the honor of a gentleman, I a.s.sure you that your question shall be answered truly, and that I am ready to serve you as far as it lies in my power.”
”Are you acquainted with General Bachmann's adjutant?” asked she, shortly and hurriedly.
”I am,” replied Bertram.
She trembled as in an ague. ”I am come to inquire after a man of whom I have not heard for six months. I wish to know whether he is alive, or only dead to me.”
”His name?” asked Bertram, with painful misgiving.
Her voice was scarcely audible as she replied: ”Colonel Count Feodor von Brenda, of the regiment Bachmann.”
Bertram was quite taken aback by this unexpected turn of the conversation, and she continued with great excitement, ”You do not answer! oh, have compa.s.sion on me, and speak! Is he alive?”
”He is alive, and is here,” answered Bertram sadly.
A cry of delight escaped the lips of the lady. ”He lives,” she exclaimed loudly. ”G.o.d has then heard my prayer, and preserved him to me.”
But suddenly the cheerful smile on her lips died away, and, dropping her head on her breast, she cried, ”He is alive, and only dead to me.
He is alive, and did not write me!” For a moment she stood in this position, silent and depressed; then drawing herself up erect, her eyes sparkling with pa.s.sionate warmth, she said: ”Sir, I crave your pardon for a poor stranger, who hardly knows what she is doing or saying. I am not acquainted with you, or even your name, but there is something in your n.o.ble, calm countenance which inspires confidence.”
Bertram smiled sadly. ”Fellow-sufferers always feel attracted to each other by a community of feeling. I, too am a sufferer, and it is G.o.d's will that our sorrows should spring from a common source. The name you have uttered is but too well known to me.”
”You know Colonel Brenda?” she asked.
”I do know him,” answered Bertram.
”The count was at one time a prisoner of war,” continued the lady. ”He visited this house frequently, for I have been told that it belongs to Mr. Gotzkowsky, of whom the colonel wrote me, in the commencement of his captivity, that he received him most hospitably.”
”Did he write you any word of Gotzkowsky's handsome daughter?” asked Bertram, looking inquiringly into the countenance of the stranger.
She shuddered, and turned pale. ”O Heaven!” she murmured low, ”I have betrayed myself!”
Bertram seized her hand, his features evincing deep emotion. ”Will you answer me one question?” he asked, and as she bowed her head in silence, he proceeded--”is the Count von Brenda your brother?”
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